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COPYRIGHT deposit. 


Gro 






























WHEN I WAS A GIRL 
IN FRANCE 


CHILDREN OF OTHER LANDS BOOKS 

Independent Volumes With Characteristic Illustrations 
and Cover Designs 12 mo Cloth 

There are many books about the children of other countries, but 
no other group like this, with each volume written by one who has 
lived the foreign child life described, and learned from subsequent 
experience in this country how to tell it in a way attractive to Ameri¬ 
can children — and in fact to Americans of any age. 

WHEN I WAS A BOY IN CHINA, By Yan Phou Lee 
WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN ITALY, By Marietta Ambrosi 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN JAPAN, By Sakae Shioya 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN GREECE, By George Demetrios 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN PALESTINE, By Mousa J. Kaleel 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN BELGIUM, By Robert Jonckheere 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN RUSSIA, By Vladimir Mokrievitch 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN ROUMANIA, By Dr. J. S. Van Teslaar 
WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN HOLLAND, By Cornelia De Groot 
WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN MEXICO, By Mercedes Godoy 
WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN ICELAND, By Holmfridur Arnadottir 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN PERSIA, By Youel B. Mirza 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN SCOTLAND, By George McP. Hunter 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN NORWAY, By John 0. Hall 
WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN SWITZERLAND, By S. Louise Patteson 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN DENMARK, By H. Trolle-Steenstrup 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN INDIA, By Satyananda Roy 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN TURKEY, By Ahmed Sabri Bey 
WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE, By Georgette Beuret 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 

BOSTON 










At the Time of her Musical Debut 
in America. 





WHEN I WAS A GIRL 
IN FRANCE 


BY 

GEORGETTE BEURET 

• • 


ILL USTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS 


-> 

) 

I 

J 




BOSTON 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 










me 33 

i \JP 


* 




Copyright, 1925, 

By Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 

All Rights Reserved 

When I Was a Girl In France 


\ 


Printed in U. S. A. 


IKorwoofc press 
BERWICK & SMITH CO. 
Norwood, Mass. 


SEP 14 1925 

©C1A8&1787 

V« / 





CONTENTS 


I. 

A Wakeful Night . 

9 

II. 

First Music 

. 19 

in. 

A Peasant Ball 

. 33 

IV. 

Country Walks 

. 41 

y. 

The Nest .... 

. 49 

VI. 

In the Market 

. 57 

VII. 

City Joys .... 

. 64 

VIII. 

An Antique City 

. 76 

IX. 

Violin Times 

. 84 

X. 

Sayed at a Drawbridge. 

. 92 

XI. 

Kindergarten Days 

. 103 

XII. 

Prize-Giying Day . 

. 110 

XIII. 

The Path of Learning . 

. 121 

XIV. 

My Birthday . 

. 128 

XV. 

Bastille Day . 

. 135 

XVI. 

Christmas .... 

. 144 

XVII. 

New Year’s Day 

. 157 

XVIII. 

More Rejoicings 

. 171 

XIX. 

Distress and Hard Work 

. 178 

XX. 

Irreparable Loss 

. 190 

XXI. 

The Scattered Nest 

. 199 


6 






I 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Georgette Beuret . . . Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

My Mother.18 

My Father.18 

Besan£on, with its ramparts and forts . 32 

La Porte Noire .78 

My Music School.90 

The Basilica of St. Ferjeul, where the 

martyrs were executed . . .102 

The Quinconce of Chamars . . . 102 

La Creche , our Christmas Puppet-Show 120 

The famous Astronomical Clock . .134 

Fountains of Many Periods in Besan£on . 156 

Childhood Sketches of our own Dream- 

Fairy .170 

Some Great Men of Franche Comte . 184 

The River Doubs, encircling Besan£on . 188 

Over the roofs of Besan£on . . .188 

La Porte Pivotte . . . . .198 

A Building of the Middle Ages . . 198 

7 


) 


When I Was a Girl 
In France 


CHAPTER I 

A WAKEFUL NIGHT 

My remembrances go very far back, as 
far as the early years of my babyhood. 
I can remember something which, though 
I was but a tot of two years old at the 
time, still makes me thrill with childish 
joy. I see it and hear it all again! 

I was with Nou-nou, my nurse, in the 
country, where, under her care, I was 
growing in the sunshine and pure air like 
a little flower. We were staying on a big 
farm belonging to an ancient chateau, and 
my family, living in the busy town, would 
come to see me once or twice a week. In 

the hot summer holidays, my three big 

9 


10 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

sisters and Mother stayed for two months 
at the chateau. They played with me in 
the grass and under the trees all the day 
long; it was lovely! 

“Ai! Ai!” my biggest sister, Adele, 
exclaimed to me, one day. “Ai! Ai! 
To-morrow, if you are a good little baby, 
you will hear the trumpets—ta-ra, ta-ra, 
ta-ra!—and the drums—boo-roo, boom, 
boom; boo-roo, boom, boom!—and see 
all our beautiful soldiers, in red trousers 
and brass buttons, and the big general on 
his black horse—hoppity-trot, hoppity- 
trot!—and the great flag, red, white, 
and blue—flick-flack, flick-flack!—in the 
wind! ” 

My feet were pattering with joy, and 
I clapped my little hands. 

“ But now you must go to bed; it is 
very late for you, Baby! ” 

In my little bed, in the dark, with my 
eyes wide open, I saw the soldiers and 
the horses and the flag, and the brass but¬ 
tons! I could not sleep. I would not 



A WAKEFUL NIGHT 


11 


sleep. I was tossing, sitting up, lying 
down again, falling asleep and waking up 
again, all startled lest the soldiers should 
have passed. 

Nou-nou was gone on a holiday, and I 
was alone in the big, dark room, not in 
the least afraid. My mind was too full 
of trumpets and drums, and I could watch 
the whole night through without being 
scolded. 

Dawn came with the crowing of the 
roosters. I was still watching feverishly. 

Far, far away, I actually heard dis¬ 
tinctly, but faintly, the vast noise of 
thousands of feet tramping on the ground. 
I jumped up and ran to the big French 
windows, wide open for the night. The 
village and the house were all asleep, and 
the noise sounded to me all the bigger. 

In frantic joy I yelled out, in a sharp 
little voice: 

<f JLes Da-da! Les Da-da! ” (The sol¬ 
diers ! The soldiers!) 

It startled the whole family. 


12 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

In an instant, Mother was beside me, 
trying to tear me from the window, think¬ 
ing I was walking in my sleep. But, by 
this time, it was broad daylight, and the 
first soldiers were rounding the corner. 

My little fists were simply soldered to 
the iron rail of the balcony. 

" Les Da-da! Les Da-da !" 

Mother had to give way, and wrapped 
around me my little woolen cape. Soon 
my sisters and father came, too. We 
were all there to greet the soldiers. 

But I—I was enraptured! 

The trumpets were deafening, the 
drums beating madly; the soldiers seemed 
to me like big giants in a riot of colors, 
and the general and his horse the biggest 
of all. It was the first time that I had 
seen soldiers—our soldiers! I felt sim¬ 
ply that they were very strong, and very 
good, for some of them, lifting their stern 
faces, smiled at me. 

From that day I knew they were there 
to defend little children and their mothers. 



A WAKEFUL NIGHT 


13 


their houses and gardens and little pets. 
I always loved them. 

In France, every man from twenty-one 
years of age must be a soldier for two 
years at least, rich or poor, high or low. 
The sons of the best families are proud 
when the day of conscription comes. 

On that day, in the streets of cities and 
in the lanes of villages, one may see bands 
of young men, of all ranks of society, in 
their best clothes, decorated with long 
floating ribbons and with huge tricolor 
bouquets pinned on their chests, while 
the conscription number drawn is tucked 
with a tricolor cockade into the bands of 
their tall top-hats. They walk martially 
arm-in-arm up and down the streets, sing¬ 
ing patriotic songs, and every one greets 
them. Their companions, not yet of mil¬ 
itary age, follow them, as do often their 
mothers and sisters, all joining in the 
singing. 

In the evening, the streets and parks 
are illuminated. One hears music and 


14 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


firecrackers everywhere. The young men 
are always feted by the mayor of the city 
and the general of the garrison. It is 
real rejoicing for everybody, for these 
young men—from the son of the wealth¬ 
iest burgher to that of the poorest black¬ 
smith, the artist as well as the lawyer, 
even the priest—are going to learn how 
to defend their country and all that live 
in it. 

In summer, every regiment goes from 
city garrisons into the country to practise 
in the open air, just as if it were war-time. 
That is called the Great Manoeuvres. 

The soldiers I saw entering the village 
were on their way to the manoeuvres. 
Thev remained there all summer. 

The first day, after having watched for 
them all night through, I was so tired that 
I slept soundly in spite of the noise in the 
village. 

Nou-nou came back the same evening, 
and, of course, was told of my naughti¬ 
ness. She tried very hard to scold me, 


A WAKEFTJL NIGHT 


15 


but could not help laughing at the idea of 
a little girl of two, lying awake a whole 
night, to see the soldiers pass by. 

The farmer’s wife thought it was sim¬ 
ply superb! 

Under her care she had a little tot of a 
boy, much younger than I was, with 
whom I used to play. 

“ Why didn’t you wait for the Da-das 
the other night? ” I asked him, in my baby 
jargon. “ Nurse wouldn’t let you? Poor, 
poor little Pierre! ” 

I kissed him, for I felt a pity for him, 
to have missed such a wonderful thing. I 
was sure he was unhappy, though he could 
not understand me. 

The farmer’s wife and my Nou-nou 
were very good friends, and little Pierre 
and I were almost inseparable. Many 
little children in France are thus growing 
in the country, far from the bad air of 
cities and the narrowness of small apart¬ 
ments. 

The parents who cannot afford a coun- 


16 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

try house or a chateau, or the mothers who 
must work in an office, factory, or shop, 
give the little ones to the care of some 
chosen peasant woman, strong, healthy, 
and clean, living in some healthful place 
not too far from the city. The mother 
comes often to see her baby, and, each 
time, finds the child stronger and rosier. 
Some of these robust peasant women have 
nourished and brought up scores of city 
children and are extremely proud of it, 
especially, if, later on, their nurslings be¬ 
come celebrated men or women. 

When I was about three or four years 
old, my mother took me back definitely. 
Great was the joy in the family, and Baby 
was feted all the more. 

But I had a very good memory, and 
did not forget so quickly my little pet 
rabbit, the fluttering pigeons and the big 
watch-dog that was so patient when I 
pulled him by the tail, as well as the dar¬ 
ling little donkey that carried me around 
the orchard under the tall fruit-trees, all 


A WAKEFUL NIGHT 


17 


covered with pinky snow in the spring¬ 
time. 

It was like a fairy palace to me, and 
Nou-nou, holding me on my little saddle, 
was surely a good fairy. She was so good, 
and so beautiful, with her large cap 
crowned with the widest of vivid-colored 
ribbons, falling down her back to her very 
heels, and her wide and warm cloak, in 
which she wrapped me so cosily against 
her when I was crying or asleep. 

And she told me such wonderful 
stories! About flowers and bees, and cats 
and mice, and birds and babies! But 
there were one or two that I asked for, 
again and again, and this was one of my 
frequent questions: 

“ Nou-nou, how did the soldiers march 
through your village? Was the General 
as big as mine? ” 

“ Not quite so big, Dearest, but he was 
verv fine! ” 

“ Did the trumpets play the same 
tunes? ” 


18 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

“ Just the same, Baby, but not so loud 
as your trumpets! ” 

“ And the soldiers, did they carry a 
big flag, too? ” 

“ O dear, yes! Just as big and just as 
high. But they did not walk so fast as 
your soldiers! ” 

I was delighted with those words: 
“ your general,” “ your trumpets,” “ your 
soldiers.” They really belonged to me! 

My questions were endless, and the re¬ 
plies were always generous. 

Invariably I ended with this query: 

“ And, Nou-nou, did you watch, too, 
all the night through? ” 




My Mother. My Father. 









CHAPTER II 


FIRST MUSIC 

From those far-away days of my child¬ 
hood in the country with Nou-nou, one 
other delightful event stands out very 
sharply in my memory. It revealed to 
me a powerful and beautiful thing— 
Music—which has attracted me invincibly 
ever since, and which has influenced a 
great part of my life. 

The good Mere Madeleine, the farmer’s 
wife, had taken, as her first nursling, the 
son of a famous violinist. The boy, later 
on, became a celebrity, too. He never 
forgot Mere Madeleine. I heard her, one 
afternoon, saying to Nou-nou, as she held 
a letter excitedly: 

“Yes, yes! He comes this evening! 

And he will stay at the farm to rest, a few 

weeks! Ah! Holy Virgin! He’ll play 

19 



20 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

to us on Sunday for the dance, and at the 
Mass, and for the procession. You’ll see! 
He’s a tall fine boy of twenty, now. 
When I think I held him on my knees, 
sang lullabies to him, ah! Holy Virgin! 
Now, everybody bows to him.” 

She was all flushed with excitement, 
and asked Nou-nou to help her get every¬ 
thing ready and beautiful for the recep¬ 
tion of the young artist. 

“ Mere Madeleine,” I asked her, plead¬ 
ingly, pulling her by her apron, “ Mere 
Madeleine, if I’m a very good little girl, 
will the gentleman play for me, too? ” 

“ You’ll be allowed to listen to his 
violin, if you are not too noisy and behave 
properly; that’s all. Now, let Nou-nou 
help me.” 

That reply did not please me at all, and 
as I was very decided and stubborn, I put 
it in my little head that the violin should 
play for me, too. 

I followed Nou-nou everywhere. Since 
she was putting things in shape for the 


FIRST MUSIC 


21 


young artist, I was sure, thus, not to miss 
him. They prepared for him the room of 
Mere Madeleine’s father, dead long ago. 

On entering that room, I thought it a 
palace. The ceiling was high, crossed by 
beams of dark oak; the walls were pan¬ 
elled and painted in light gray. Every 
one of the solid pieces of furniture was of 
fine-grained and highly-polished nut¬ 
wood, handsomely hand-carved and dec¬ 
orated with shining brass. The floor of 
polished oak was partly covered with a 
thick woolen carpet, the handiwork of the 
wife and daughter during the long winter 
evenings. The windows were draped 
with long, spotless white muslin curtains, 
decorated with hand-made lace, also the 
work of the women of the house. 

On the chest-of-drawers was something 
which attracted me very much. Under a 
rather high bell of shiny glass rested, on a 
little cushion of white satin, yellowed with 
age, a very faded bouquet of orange blos¬ 
soms, tied with a white ribbon, silver- 


22 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


fringed; there were also a piece of a veil 
of fine tulle, almost crumbling into dust, 
and a lace handkerchief, spotted with rust. 

I would look at those aged things, puz¬ 
zling my little brain why they should be 
kept so carefully. I was curious, very 
curious, but never dared ask Mere Made¬ 
leine any explanation of them, lest she 
should take them away. I felt that they 
were very sacred and precious things, for 
she dusted the glass ever so softly, and 
told me, frowningly: 

“ Don’t you touch that, or I’ll spank 
you!” And Mere Madeleine always 
meant what she said! 

So I put my hands behind my back to 
show her my obedience, and gazed at the 
bell-glass. She laughed and kissed me, 
but I was eager to ask about the old bou¬ 
quet. 

Much later on, I learned what those 
things were, for I saw many of those relics 
in other farmhouses. They were, indeed, 
very sacred and precious: the bridal veil, 


FIRST MUSIC 


23 


bouquet, and handkerchief of Mere Made¬ 
leine’s mother, emblems of fidelity until 
death. 

And then for the bed of that cosy 
peasant-room. It was huge, enormous, 
almost filling the room, quite square, 
pushed in the corner not far from the 
chimney. Curtains of thick red cretonne 
hung from a square baldaquin attached to 
the ceiling, clear to the floor. 

The mattresses, three of them, one of 
wool, one of horsehair, and one of feath¬ 
ers, were each more than a foot thick, 
and there was the spring mattress, be¬ 
sides. On the top of that lay an immense 
red cushion of the finest goose-down, the 
big bolster, and the fat pillows. To lie 
in that monster bed, one actually had to 
climb on a little ladder reaching to the 
top mattress, and then one would sink 
deep in. 

Nou-nou, for fun, when putting on 
fresh sheets, allowed me to try it. It was 
so different from my little bed. 


24 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

“Oh, let me climb up there!” I 
pleaded. 

“ Be quick, then, that Mere Madeleine 
doesn’t see you. One, two, three! ” 

I disappeared between woolly and 
feathery mountains, and, to add to the 
huge fun of it, Nou-nou piled on me the 
goose-down edredon. I was giggling 
madly. I didn’t want to come out at all. 

When Mere Madeleine came to spread 
the sheets, I jumped up like a cat from a 
chair. She screamed, and I disappeared 
in the next room. 

Oh, that bed! That fat, cosy bed! 
How very warm it must have been sleep¬ 
ing in it during our windy, cuttingly cold 
winter nights. 

But I soon reappeared. That room 
fascinated me. The sheets of heavy, 
hand-woven linen were so perfumed with 
iris roots. They were embroidered all 
around in drawn-work in fine patterns. 
They were stiff with age, and could stand 
on edge, almost like cardboard. When 


FIRST MUSIC 


25 


unfolding them, they made a most pe¬ 
culiar noise, like paper. Those sheets 
were perhaps a hundred years old and 
could be used for another hundred. 

The blankets were of soft, vivid, red 
wool, and the coverlet of the finest hand 
crochet work. 

“ Nou-nou, what’s that other funny 
thing? ” I asked. 

I was pointing to a curious instrument 
hanging on the wall, by the bed. I 
thought it was for music of some kind, for, 
when I touched it in a childish way, it 
gave a funny brass tone. It was like a 
huge watch, as big as a plate, in copper, 
full of little holes on the lid, and with a 
long, long handle of wood. 

“ That? That’s the bassinoir to warm 
the bed with. You’ll soon see how it’s 
done!” 

She took it down to the kitchen, and 
came back with it after a few minutes. 

“ Don’t touch it, or you’ll burn your 
fingers! ” she warned. 


26 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


She opened the lid of it, just like the 
glass of a watch, and, lo! it was full of 
red embers. Closing it again, and hold¬ 
ing it by the long handle, she passed it to 
and fro between the sheets of the bed, now 
in perfect order. 

“ But you’ll set fire to the bed, Nou- 
nou!” 

“O dear; no!” she laughed. “You 
see, it is just like a hot iron, and it takes 
away the slightest dampness from the 
sheets, if there is any. Now the bed will 
be as warm as toast! ” 

“ But you’ll make fire in the chimney, 
too, won’t you? ” I asked, and Nou-nou 
nodded. 

The old chimney, of oak and red tiles, 
had a fireplace large enough to burn a 
huge log. Above it hung two holy pic¬ 
tures, a rosary, and a branch of blessed 
boxwood—the symbol of Palm Sunday, 
in France. 

So, at last, the room was ready: neat, 
fresh, full of the aroma of clean linen and 



FIRST MUSIC 


27 


of the burning oaken log, for it was early 
spring and still quite cold. 

Late in the evening, Mr. Raoul, the 
young artist, arrived. I had been put to 
bed, as usual, but, as when the soldiers 
were entering the village, I was watching 
for the arrival of the expected guest. 
This time, the window was closed because 
of the cold, and I was not strong enough 
to open it. 

I heard the carriage coming back from 
the station. Peeping from behind the 
curtains I saw the shadow of Mere Made¬ 
leine embracing the shadow of a tall, thin 
man. She seemed so much rounder than 
usual, and the shadow-man was so thin 
that I laughed and jumped, all alone, in 
my dark room. The shadow-man was 
holding a long, dark shadow-thing under 
his arm. Was that his violin? 

They were so, so funny, those silhou¬ 
ettes kissing each other, one round, one 
thin, in the patch of light thrown by the 
open doorway on the ground, that, even 


28 WHEN l WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


to-day, when thinking of them, I cannot 
resist a little chuckle. 

And then I heard laughter and cries of 
rejoicing, a general beautiful hullabaloo 
of happy voices. Then the noise dimin¬ 
ished. They had passed into the dining¬ 
room. I listened intently, but only the 
very laughter reached me. Then the 
hullabaloo began again. They were pass¬ 
ing into the best room, just beside mine. 
They talked together a little while, and 
then came silence, a profound, religious 
silence. 

Curious trailing and squeaking tones 
broke that silence. Was that a cat? 

And then a wonderful cascade of flut¬ 
ing tones, down and up. Tira-li, tira-li, 
tira-li, tira-li! Was that a bird? 

And then wonderful vibrating chords, 
so large, so full! That was not, surely, 
the organ of the church? 

All that in a few seconds. 

The silence seemed to be listening to 
that extraordinary music, and I was spell- 


FIRST MUSIC 


29 


bound, when a gentle soft melody rose up 
and made me cry. 

The violin was playing! 

It was too, too beautiful! Other tunes 
followed, all more and more lovely, and, 
in between, a thundering clapping of 
hands. I was clapping, too, sitting in the 
dark. 

Once I heard Nou-nou coming. I 
rushed to my bed and feigned to sleep. 
She went away softly. I got up again, 
listening against the wall. The young 
artist played far into the night and the 
charm lasted to the very last note. 

“ So, that was the music of the violin,” 
I said to myself, when all was over, “ and 
to-morrow I shall see the violin, and, per¬ 
haps, touch it. When I shall be a big 
girl, I will have a violin and play on it 
day and night, yes, and do only that! I 
shall not sleep, I shall not eat. I shall 
play all the time, all the time! ” 

The idea so filled my little brain that 
I fell asleep on the floor. 


30 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


When Nou-nou came up for rest, she 
went to bed in the dark, not to wake me 
up with the flare of the candle. (I have 
always been a light sleeper.) Early next 
morning, she saw my bed empty. Great 
was her anxiety. 

As the place where I had been listening 
against the wall was between the table 
and the wall, and I was there, on the floor, 
hidden by the table-cover, she could not 
see me. She opened the door and closed 
it with a bang, rushing downstairs. That 
waked me up, and, calmly, I crawled into 
my little bed, for I was cold, and went on 
sleeping. 

Nou-nou came back, later on, terribly 
perturbed. But she was persuaded that 
I was not in the room. She let herself 
fall into the great armchair by the win¬ 
dow, and began to cry, muttering to her¬ 
self: 

“ Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu! What 
shall I do? ” 

Her sobs waked me up again, and see- 


FIRST MUSIC 31 

ing her so alarmed, I rushed to her with 
a cry: 

“ Oh! Nou-nou dear, are you ill? ” 

She stared at me with a frightened look, 
her mouth open; she could not speak. I, 
too, began to be afraid. 

“ Nou-nou! Do you hear me? ” 

I shook her by the arm. 

“ Oh, you naughty, naughty child! 
You nearly killed me! Where have you 
been all night? I saw you yesterday, at 
half-past nine; you were asleep. And 
this morning, you were gone! Where? 
But where? ” 

“ I was here all the time, dear Nou-nou, 
listening to the violin, behind the table 
and against the wall; there! And then 
I went asleep on the floor, almost under 
the table.” 

“ And I looked for you, naughty child, 
all over the place! And you went to bed 
again, I suppose, when I was hunting for 
you!” 

She understood the situation, at last, 


32 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


and laughed and scolded me, and kissed 
me, all at a time. She was so relieved to 
have found me, poor, dear Nou-nou. 

That morning I was kept in bed to 
check a bad cough I had caught when ly¬ 
ing on the floor, and also to punish me 
for my misbehavior. Punished I was, in¬ 
deed, for I did not hear the violin playing 
in the church. I only heard Mere Made¬ 
leine repeating again and again: 

“Ah! Holy Virgin! It was just like 
angels singing!” 


Fort Chaudanne 



Besan^on, with its Ramparts and Forts. 

In the foreground, the ancient door with a drawbridge which saved Father’s life. 














CHAPTER III 


A PEASANT BALL 

In the afternoon there was to be a 
dance in the big stone hall of the chateau, 
a huge place open only on grand occa¬ 
sions. In the centre stood a strong round 
pillar, reaching to the raftered ceiling; at 
one end was an enormous chimney, where 
a whole ox could be roasted; standing in 
the fireplace one could see the sky, a blue 
bright spot of light. All around the 
walls were old, old benches of carved oak, 
and, on the walls, hung large, old and 
moth-eaten tapestries. Three large arched 
windows opened on the garden. It was 
an ideal place for a dance, with its high 
ceiling and smooth stone floor. 

As I entered the hall with Nou-nou, the 
place was already filled up with people, 

old and young, all in their best array. 

33 



34 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

The women wore ample bright-colored 
woolen skirts and little black velvet jack¬ 
ets, a pretty cap of muslin and lace on 
the head; the young girls, about the same, 
but for a dainty apron of lace and rib¬ 
bons, and no caps, flowers instead being 
stuck in the hair. 

The older men wore large swallow¬ 
tailed coats of dark-colored cloth with 
brass buttons, long waistcoats of light- 
colored wool or silk; and knee-breeches 
of black velvet, always with white stock¬ 
ings and buckled shoes; on their white 
heads were fine cocked hats. The young 
men followed more the fashion of the city, 
with stiff white collars, which made them 
look very red and out of breath. 

The hall looked gorgeous with the 
spring sunshine and all those gay people. 
They were chattering and laughing 
heartily. Some of them had come from 
far away on horseback, others in cabrio¬ 
lets, to join the dance. 

Nou-nou and I sat beside Mere Made- 


A PEASANT BALL 


35 


leine, radiant in her vivid blue dress and 
white cap, and, in front of her, stood Mon¬ 
sieur Raoul, his violin under his arm. 
They did not look so round and so thin as 
the night before, and I felt very shy and 
respectful. I was spellbound, and could 
not take my eyes from him nor from his 
instrument. 

I had never seen a violin before, and 
could not imagine how it made such beau¬ 
tiful music. I knew a piano; there was 
one in the chateau for my big sisters, when 
they came to see me on vacations. The 
violin seemed so small in comparison with 
the big piano! 

I listened hard to the conversation, lest 
anything should be said about the instru¬ 
ment, but they were talking about 
friends; how dull! My impatience and 
curiosity were almost hurting me. 

At last they decided that the dance 
should begin. Monsieur Raoul crossed 
the hall, people making way for him as he 
passed, and planted himself in front of the 




36 WEEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


chimney. I was so, so disappointed that 
he should not stay with us that I almost 
burst out crying. But I choked down 
my tears; I might have been sent away, 
and that would have been unendurable. 

As he was tuning the violin, I under¬ 
stood the queer noises of cats and birds the 
night before, but I could not see why he 
should make them again, and, during this 
time, all the young people joined their 
parents on the benches. Then the first 
bars of a lively dance began. The tones 
filled the hall, and great was my astonish¬ 
ment and ravishment that such a small 
thing could give such loud music. 

This was, too, a ball of grown-up 
people, quite, quite new to me. What 
was going to happen? Every string of 
my eyes and ears was tense. 

Young men crossed the room, here and 
there, and went to the mothers and fathers 
of the young girls, asking them very 
deferentially for the honor of dancing 
with their daughter. The parents would 


A PEASANT BALL 


37 


bow consent, and the young man would 
then bow gravely to the girl. She, in re¬ 
turn, would get up and make a graceful 
curtsey to her cavalier, and nod her head 
to her parents, thanking them for their 
permission. 

Then the young couple would dance 
and dance, very seriously, indeed with 
almost grave faces. The dance finished, 
the young dancer brought back the lady, 
her arm under his, to her parents, to whom 
the young man bowed in turn and then 
returned to his own. Such was a typical 
peasant ball, when I was a tiny girl. 

In between the dances, the chatter and 
laughter were indescribable. The violin 
was doing wonders, with waltzes, polkas, 
mazurkas, schottisches and quadrilles. 
It was very hard for me to sit still beside 
Nou-nou. From time to time, the young 
artist came and sat beside Mere Made¬ 
leine, who beamed with rapture. But 
then he didn’t play! My disappointment 
was too, too keen. 


38 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

Something was to happen! It hap¬ 
pened! 

Imagine! As Monsieur Raoul was tak¬ 
ing back his place in front of the chimney, 
just as he was putting the violin under 
his chin, I rushed suddenly and unexpect¬ 
edly across the big hall, and, curtseying 
to him, as I had seen the ladies doing, I 
asked him pleadingly: 

“ Oh, Monsieur Raoul, please play a 
little tune for me? ” 

He smiled at me so generously that I 
forgot that everybody was looking at me. 
Mere Madeleine and Nou-nou were so 
taken aback that they did not even move 
from their bench. 

“ And what piece do you want, my little 
lady? ” 

I didn’t expect that question. I only 
knew a few nursery songs, so boldly I 
said: 

“ ‘ The Little Shepherdess ’ (II etait 
une berg ere) ” and I sang the tune. 

He played it all through, with all kinds 


A PEASANT BALL 


39 


of variations, just ravishing my ears. 
Everybody applauded and laughed with 
pleasure. 

Then I asked for “ Le Roi Dagobert” 
and “ La Tabatiere ” and “ Malbrouck ” 
all of them old songs that every one knew 
from childhood on. The whole hall was 
filled with frantic applause, and Nou-nou 
had forgotten to scold me. Little by 
little the crowd surrounded the young and 
elated artist, so generous and so simple. 
Thus ended the beautiful afternoon. 

As Nou-nou, that evening, laid me in 
bed, she said: 

“ And now, don’t you go to sleep on 
the floor again, or I’ll really take your 
bed away! And you shall have to sleep 
forever on the hard floor! ” 

But I replied: 

“ I wouldn’t mind, if I could always 
hear the violin on the other side of the 
wall! And, one day, I’ll play for you, 
too, Nou-nou, like Monsieur Raoul for 
M£re Madeleine, and you’ll sing ‘ Le 


40 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


Grand Roi Dagobert * to it,” and I began 
to sing the old song, at the top of my 
voice. 

I was so excited that I could not sleep, 
and, that night, I made up my mind that 
I would be a violinist. Indeed, later on 
in life, my violin, my dear violin, proved 
a good friend to me and opened to me 
many doors of pure beauty and cultured 

joy- 


CHAPTER IV 


COUNTRY WALKS 

My days in the country were passed 
away forever. I was entering a new life 
amid my family, and, instinctively, though 
I was only four years old, I felt that a 
strong authority, an almost severe energy, 
was going to direct me in everything. 
That was my mother. Her amazing ac¬ 
tivity, her clear decision, her strong will 
created the atmosphere in which all my 
youth developed, in reverence and fear. 

And my mother was a typical French 
mother of the past times. Her physique 
was in perfect harmony with her strong 
personality, for she was an unusually fine- 
looking woman, and had splendid health. 
Even to-day, though eighty-six years of 
age, she goes out every day and does not 
mind a walk of several miles, even in bad 
weather. 


41 


42 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

Of us little girls, she made astounding 
walkers. The long, long tours on foot in 
the country, on holidays! How well I 
remember them, and I still feel the fever 
of the preparations and the exhaustion of 
the return. 

“ To-morrow will be Thursday (which 
is the weekly holiday in France, as Satur¬ 
day is in America), to-morrow, my little 
ones,” she would say, “ we will go into 
the country.” 

We knew what that meant—air, sun¬ 
shine, wind, birds, clouds, trees, flowers, 
rivulets, butterflies. I, especially, re¬ 
joiced in advance to see again that world 
I had left not long before; rejoiced so 
intensely that I would hop, and hop, and 
scream, and beat my fists for joy. And 
my big sister Fanny would calm me down 
with a good shaking: 

“ Come, don’t be so giddy! Keep 
quiet!” 

As Mother’s principle was: “ Always 
make yourself useful,” I would try to 


COUNTRY WALKS 43 

help the maid, Nou-nou and my sisters in 
the packing of provisions, of course often 
in the wrong way, babbling continually: 

“ Shall we see the water-mill? And 
shall we find grasshoppers, like the last 
time? And can I roll in the grass 
again? ” 

“ Pack the bread and don’t talk so 
much! ” would say my sister Adele. 

“And don’t forget the napkins!” 
Fanny would add. 

How could I remember all those 
things? I had tadpoles, and ants, and 
brooks, in the head! 

The start was made very early in the 
morning, sometimes at five o’clock. Off 
we marched, Mother, my three sisters, 
Nou-nou and the maid, up the quiet 
streets, still asleep. Each of us carried 
a parcel, even I, and Gabrielle as well, 
though she was a year younger, still. Up 
to the ramparts of the city we went, Goby 
and I walking sagely hand in hand, in 
front of the others; that was the rule. 


44 WHEN 1 WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


But, as soon as the open road was 
reached, we ran and gamboled and sang 
like the mad little girls that we were. I 
loved talking to things and creatures 
around me, I knew them so well! 

“ Bon jour. Monsieur le Tilleul, (that 
was a big basswood-tree by the last 
bridge) how did you sleep last night? 
Did you know that I should pass by, to¬ 
day, and did you wait for me all night? 
How kind of you! I shall see you to¬ 
night, again; don’t lose patience! Good¬ 
bye! ” 

And I would kiss the rough bark ten¬ 
derly, my little arms around his thick 
woody waist. I was persuaded that the 
tree understood me and was waiting for 
me. 

As for the horses and the dogs and the 
cows we met on the road, I was constantly 
making them real confidences. 

“ You see, Horsey, Fanny gave me this 
pretty ribbon; did you get one, too, from 
your big sister? No, I can’t give you 


COUNTRY WALKS 


45 


mine, she would scold me, but next time, 
wait for me here and I’ll bring you an¬ 
other one. I’ll tie it up in your hair, too. 
Good-bye, Horsey! ” 

I was not afraid of him, holding him by 
one front leg, and kissing him on his 
hairy chest. I couldn’t reach his nose. 
Mother would be frantic lest I should be 
killed. It finished always in tears and in: 
“ I won’t do it again! ” 

But, at the next calf, or donkey, I was 
off in the same way. 

“ Incorrigible child! I shall never be 
able to make anything out of her!” 
Mother would say. 

What she wanted to make out of me, 
I could not understand. 

But soon the cloud was over, and I 
would run and sing with Goby. All the 
morning we walked along the roads, 
across the fields or through the woods un¬ 
til Mother decided on a place for lunch 
and rest. My sisters then sketched or 
painted; Mother sewed or read. 


46 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


If a stream was near by, or even a pond, 
ah! what a heavenly time! Goby, much 
quieter than I, wanted to fish, right away! 
A piece of string, a bent pin, and a crumb 
of bread swinging from a long stick, and 
she was in the Seventh Heaven! 

“ Georgette, don’t scream! Don’t run 
there! You’ll frighten my fishes!” 

So I would go farther up the stream 
with an empty bottle and fill it up with 
water and creeping things, all caught by 
hand. I thought that much more inter¬ 
esting. In went worms, water-slugs, 
water-beetles, wigglers, tadpoles, young 
frogs, even leeches! Then a little grass 
and sand, and I had a perfect aquarium, 
which fascinated me for hours. 

“ Where is Georgette? She’s so quiet 
I don’t hear her? ” some one would ask. 

I did not reply. I was jealous of my 
hiding-place, behind a bush, flat on my 
stomach in the wet grass, gazing at my 
water monsters. 

There were the chases after the butter- 


COUNTRY WALKS 


47 


flies, too. That was difficult, for I had 
no net. But, with great patience and 
prudence, I caught a few. Then I felt 
so sorry that, after holding them ever so 
carefully by the wings, they left some of 
their jewel-dust on my finger-tips, that by 
and by I became adept in watching them 
quite close by without disturbing them 
when drinking on a flower. Thus I 
learned to observe insects with infinite de¬ 
light, and to see all their curious ways in 
their little life. 

Towards the end of the day, we would 
gather and gather flowers and branches, 
enough to fill up the whole house. 

And then came the walk home. 
Mother set a brisk pace and, for our little 
legs which had gamboled all the day long, 
it was hard, very hard to keep up. And 
always I brought back some living thing, 
carried carefully in my hand: a tickling 
beetle, a snail, a frog on wet leaves— 
what do I know, now! But that added 
to the difficulty of the walk, holding up 


48 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


an outstretched arm, for seven or eight 
miles! Yes, it was hard! 

But Mother’s strong principle was 
“Don’t complain!” As she put it: 
“ Don’t pity yourself! ” 

“ Nou-nou,” I would say, “ please give 
me your hand! ” 

“ No, no, ” Mother would command; 
“ let her walk alone. She must learn how 
to keep her strength and not waste it.” 

So I pulled myself together and walked 
and walked, not flinching. Goby, being 
younger, was carried by the maid. But 
I was a grown-up baby! 

When we reached the city, the gas was 
lighted in the streets, and the moon and 
stars in the sky. It seemed to me that I 
was coming back to a prison, and looking 
at the free sky through a barred window. 

The staircase was terribly hard to 
climb, on those evenings, and, once in the 
apartment, Nou-nou carried me to bed 
right away. I could not even kiss her 
good-night; I was already asleep. 


CHAPTER V 


THE NEST 

Wonderful as were those lovely, ex¬ 
alting walks, there were days of vacation 
with hard rain, or snow, when, really, one 
could not go out. Those were the “ rum¬ 
mage-room ” days. 

They were permitted only if we had 
been exemplary in our behavior, otherwise 
Mother found work for us to do in the 
household, every minute of the day. 
Yes, small as we were, we were never 
idle. Mother would say, simply and 
sharply: 

“ Don’t rust! ” 

This meant for us to use our fingers 
and brains for something useful, and it is 
astounding what even a little child can 
accomplish when well directed, and how 
the child feels proud and learns easily 

without fatigue. And we, the little ones, 

49 


50 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


learned from our big sisters how to turn 
our hands to anything, although we had 
servants. 

“ Take the duster, Georgette, and dust 
the drawing-room, all the parts of the 
furniture you can reach; but don’t climb 
on them! Like this: look! ” And Mother 
would show me. “ Don’t be long! ” 

I thought it fun to remove the dust 
from the legs of the piano, the armchairs, 
etc., and I crawled underneath them and 
brushed even the bottom. The first time, 
I wanted to brush everything: the 
kitchen, the corridors, the flowers—I was 
inseparable from my duster! Of course, 
it was not always well done, but I was 
learning, all the same. 

“ I’ve finished, Mother! ” 

“ Then go to Nou-nou in the linen room 
(a big room exclusively for cupboards all 
filled up with house-linen) and try to fold 
up the napkins properly; Nou-nou will 
show you.” 

It is quite complicated to fold up a 


THE NEST 


51 


napkin in Nou-nou’s way, but I learned 
it, and, when I succeeded, I ran through 
all the rooms, crying: 

“Look, Mother! This one I’ve done 
all alone! ” 

And so went on the week-days and play- 
days when we had been naughty. But, if 
we had been good, the rummage-room was 
there, waiting for us. 

It was a heavenly place, next to our 
children’s room. There we could laugh, 
and talk, and quarrel, and scream as much 
as we liked. It was our kingdom, Goby’s 
and mine. 

That kingdom was long and narrow 
and full of treasures. Old dresses, old 
boxes, old pots, old lots of things, and 
even a “ mannequin ” used by the seam¬ 
stress for Mother’s dresses. This manne¬ 
quin was a true playmate for us, though 
without head, arms, or feet. Yet I re¬ 
member his face very well! We would 
dress him and undress him in all sorts of 
ways. 


52 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

“ Put on him that old hat, Goby, and 
that cloak; he’s the doctor, and you’re the 
nurse.” 

And I would lie down on the floor be¬ 
side the standing mannequin. 

“ Oh, Monsieur le Docteur , I’ve a bad 
headache; shall Nurse put me on a band¬ 
age? ” 

And Goby would wrap up my head in 
an old bodice. 

Then I would be the nurse, and Goby 
would lie down, in turn, the old manne¬ 
quin again serving as the doctor. 

“ Oh, Monsieur le Docteur , I’ve broken 
my ankle! ” 

Instantly the foot was tied up, and 
how! The shrieks of laughter were end¬ 
less. 

We carried that patient playmate all 
around the kingdom (he was very light, 
made of cardboard) ; we beat him some¬ 
times when he did not behave, and we 
battled with him. Sometimes “ he ” was 
a lady, to whom we paid very correct 


THE NEST 


53 


visits, all dressed up, ourselves. That 
mannequin could act many parts. 

Then we would put him aside and 
plunge into books, for hours. Oh, those 
books, or rather, their pictures, took us 
into all kinds of worlds, imaginary and 
real. We could not read as yet, and per¬ 
haps it was all the better, as our imagina¬ 
tion was made all the more active. The 
stories I built up around those pictures 
must have been terrible, for I remember 
they used to make Goby cry. 

With the old boxes we made trains, and 
travelled all around the kingdom—to the 
foreign lands of the pictures. 

While we were thus enjoying ourselves 
to the full, as only children can, Adele and 
Fanny were busy in the study over their 
school-work, or at the piano. Even to¬ 
day, on hearing distant scales and exer¬ 
cises, I see the mannequin, grotesquely 
dressed, and the dear old rummage-room. 

Sometimes, but very rarely, Father 
would join us and ask all kinds of ques- 


54 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


tions for the fun of hearing our replies. 
He would even play with us. Our joy 
was then frantic! 

Father was just the contrary of 
Mother, always laughing with us, never 
scolding, but he was not often at home. 
His profession kept him away a good deal 
of the time. He was Chief Engineer of 
the Province for highways and bridges, a 
very responsible position. 

I remember him as a handsome man, 
very tall and strong, enormous mous¬ 
taches, very kind eyes, generous face. 
Only, sometimes, he would burst into ter¬ 
rible wrath if we disobeyed him, and then 
it was like a thunder-clap or the roar of 
a lion; his voice would shake the window- 
panes. Everybody was afraid of him, 
then; only my little sister Goby dared look 
at him. 

“ Papa, cheri,” she would say in a tiny 
voice, “ don’t be so cross! ” 

She would stand close to him, holding 
him by the knees, her sweet little face so 


THE NEST 


55 


amusingly upturned that Father’s anger 
could not resist the appeal, and it would 
melt like snow in sunshine. 

She really was a darling, my little 
Goby, much quieter than I, with long, 
wonderful silky hair that everybody stared 
at, and exquisite childish eyes and mouth. 
She and I were inseparable, like the fin¬ 
gers of the hand. Everything we felt was 
in unison. If she laughed, I laughed; if I 
cried, she cried. 

But, just the same, we quarrelled often 
enough. Instantly, though, we would 
burst into floods of repentant tears, and 
kiss and kiss each other in utter and des¬ 
perate remorse for our violence. Those 
little storms only drew us more and more 
together. 

My elder sisters were so much older 
than I that I considered them as quite 
grown-up persons. Fanny, eight years 
older, was as a second mother to us, full 
of authority. Adele, thirteen years older, 
was more indulgent. The eldest, Mar- 


56 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

guerite, had been married a few days af¬ 
ter my definite return from the country. 

So there was no boy in all the family. 
Indeed, I never have had any boy com¬ 
panions, for, in good families in France, 
especially in my time, it was considered 
very bad form for girls to have boy¬ 
friends, and only when the parents were 
present at parties, or on visits, would a 
young man dare to address a young girl. 
The rules are not so strict now, but still 
the best families follow the good old way. 

When I think of those care-free days, 
a picture comes into my mind. Father is 
there, absorbed in newspapers. Mother 
comes and goes in a lively way, giving 
orders. Fanny bends her head over her 
schoolwork. Adele’s piano sounds from 
the next room. And Goby and I look at 
pictures under the shaded lamp, quiet as 
little mice, for Father is home. 

An atmosphere of a nest, of a warm 
nest, rises around me. And I, I am the 
little bird, chirping contentedly. 


CHAPTER VI 


IN THE MARKET 

“Nou-nou, take the little ones with 
you to the market to-day; Francine (the 
maid) will go with you and will bring 
back the provisions, so that, after mar¬ 
keting, you can go to Chamars with the 
children. Be back for twelve o’clock 
(lunch-time) 

This was Mother addressing Nou-nou, 
as she often did on a market-day. 

The market—and then the park—oh, 
what a treat! 

So, hand-in-hand with Goby, each with 
her little basket, Nou-nou and Francine 
behind us, off we set at seven o’clock to 
the market-place. 

The streets were quite animated, with 
big peasant wagons already empty or 
piled up with vegetables, fruits, poultry, 

live rabbits in wooden cages, and many 

57 


58 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


eatable things. Other peasants on foot 
bore big baskets of flowers, or eggs, or 
butter, balanced on their heads; servants 
in white caps and aprons followed their 
mistresses at a brisk step, while others 
were already returning with heavy loads 
of food. 

Goby and I took marketing like two 
little housewives, quite seriously. 

The market-place was, to my eyes, a 
wonderful place: little white tents spread 
in seeming disorder all over the square, 
but, in reality, they were all arranged ac¬ 
cording to the goods they sheltered. Here 
were appetizing foodstuffs, there, shiny 
crockery; or fleecy laces, bright ribbons, 
heavy shoes, heaps of cloth, linen, cotton 
goods, even silks, all in heaps. Over 
there, in a tangle, were chains, nails, 
knives, locks, rusty farm implements, and 
what not. The poorer merchants ar¬ 
ranged their goods on the ground, at their 
feet, others on a little bench. The meats, 
fish, and chickens were under a huge open 


IN THE MARKET 


59 


shelter, each merchant having a little 
booth. Around the fountain, always 
playing, gathered the flower-sellers, so 
that, from far away, it looked like a 
phenomenal bouquet. 

In winter-time, the market did not look 
so gay. The little tents, instead of flap¬ 
ping joyously in the sunshine, were drip¬ 
ping with rain or covered with snow, 
making the ground all muddy, full of 
little splashy pools. The poorer mer¬ 
chants kept themselves dry as best they 
could, sitting on high chairs or boxes, 
their feet on little foot-warmers, full of 
red embers. 

The goods were not spread out, but 
kept in bundles, and it looked as if the 
tents were empty. Everybody grumbled 
at the weather from under shining-wet 
umbrellas, dripping on neighbors’ shoul¬ 
ders or down their necks. But one went 
on buying and selling just the same. 

“ To-day, Nou-nou,” I asked, “ may I 
choose the butter? ” 


60 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


“ And I, the cheese? ” would join in 
Goby. 

That was a little performance which 
we enjoyed hugely. 

“ I’ll see,” replied Nou-nou, “ if you 
are not too greedy, and choose well.” 

“ I promise you to taste it only twice.” 

We knew the old butter-woman quite 
well. From far away she smiled at we 
two little girls, and we almost ran to her 
stall. In wooden boxes and wicker bas¬ 
kets, between dewy green cabbage-leaves, 
rounded pats of butter of different sizes 
showed their creamy thickness. 

“ Bon jour, Madame!” (In France, 
even peasant women are addressed as 
“Madame.”) “I want some of your 
best butter.” 

“ Out, ma petite demoiselle. Here is 
my best, from my big cow! I made it all 
myself, and never so fresh as to-day. 
Will you taste it? ” 

This was on what I was counting with 
greedy anticipation. 


IN THE MARKET 


61 


And, with a good smile and a twinkle 
of the eye at Nou-nou, she would take 
off one of the cabbage leaves and show 
me a pat all decorated with actual carv¬ 
ings, which she did herself with a knife, 
taking great pride in the designs, for such 
was the custom. 

Very gravely I would look at it and 
smell it. 

“ Yes, it is very fresh. Let me taste a 
little bit of this one.” 

With delicacy, the good woman scooped 
out a tiny piece from the under side of 
the big pat, and presented it to me on 
the point of a wooden knife. I held ready 
a little wooden fork which I had taken for 
the purpose, and, quick as a bird would 
pick up a berry, I picked up the tiny piece 
of butter and tasted it most seriously. 

“ It is very fresh indeed,” I would re¬ 
peat. “ But let me taste some of that 
other pat, please! ” 

Another smile at me, another twinkle 
at Nou-nou and another bit of butter at 


62 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

the end of my little fork. It was all so 
delicious. 

That morning, I bravely kept my 
promise. But once, I remember, as we 
were with Francine only, I tasted five dif¬ 
ferent kinds of butter. Oh, I was pun¬ 
ished the right way! Mother forbade me 

V 

any butter on my bread for a whole week. 

My little tasting performance over, 
Goby’s inquiry about cheese would follow. 
She had waited so patiently for her time 
to come. 

When all was over with this little tast¬ 
ing affair, Nou-nou decided which to 
buy, and I felt very proud when she 
chose the one I preferred. Butter and 
cheese would then go respectively into our 
two little baskets. 

So we went from bench to bench, from 
tent to tent, enjoying the crowd, the cries, 
the bargaining, the dust, the smells, the 
whole life of the market-place, and very 
soon we learned how to choose and value 
food, and how to come home with a plenti- 


IN THE MARKET 


63 


ful basketful of healthful stuff, with the 
pride of not having spent all the money 
allowed. 

Yes, it takes quite a deal of thinking 
to do marketing the right way. 

“ Now, little ones, give your baskets to 
Francine; she will carry everything home, 
and we will go to Chamars.” 

Market joys were over until next week. 


CHAPTER VII 


CITY JOYS 

Chamars was another delight. It is 
a charming, curious old park. To me it 
seemed a perfect paradise, and I know 
every alley, every clump of shrubs and 
trees, every hiding-place. For me it was 
immense and without limit, with its large 
gravelled Place where young fellows on 
bicycles went round and round with a 
scratching noise on the gravel, and their 
legs working ever so fast. 

I watched them with fascination and 
envy. Oh, if once, when grown up, I 
could get such a bicycle! But it was not 
yet the time, in Franee, when a lady would 
dare to mount a wheel. 

Well do I remember seeing the “ high 
bike,” the forerunner of the modern bi¬ 
cycle. It filled me with astonishment and 

64 


CITY JOYS 


65 


respect. A man sitting up there, on the 
top of the huge high wheel, looked so 
grand! The little wheel behind looked so 
small, and in such a hurry to catch up to 
the big lazy wheel. 

That beautiful sunny space was a great 
contrast with another large place full of 
delicious shadows: the Quinconce of great - 
plane-trees, planted at an even distance 
from each other, cut and trimmed every 
spring so that the branches formed an 
airy ceiling and developed enormous 
leaves, a typical feature of a French park. 

For me, the Quinconce was an immense 
tent of green silk, full of birds’ songs and - 
pierced with innumerable holes through 
which danced sunbeams, throwing golden 
discs at play on the ground. That cool 
and spacious green tent was supported by 
ranges and ranges of smooth greyish- 
green pillars, all very straight and even— 
a perfect fairy palace. 

How delightful it was to run madly 
between those lofty arches, in those airy 


66 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


shadows, and on each visit we imagined a 
new game, generally a tree-game. Choos¬ 
ing a special tree as goal, one of us would 
decide on a complicated pattern passing 
around certain trees and no others; each, 
then, followed this pattern at a run, drag¬ 
ging a stick to mark the pattern out¬ 
line on the ground. The one following it 
the best and quickest had won, and had 
the right to combine the interweaving path 
for the next time. 

Oh, dear old plane-trees, you certainly 
were very patient listening to our endless 
little discussions, and, as often as not, big 
quarrels! 

In that park were enchantments after 
enchantments. Another large Place, be¬ 
hind the Quinconce, had a superb lawn, 
very, very green, and so velvety! Huge 
beds of flowers and borders embroidered 
it with brilliant colors; it was a marvellous 
magic carpet. The butterflies, lady-birds, 
and grasshoppers flying and hopping on 
it, were certainly little fairies! I was 


CITY JOYS 


67 


never tempted to tread on that spread 
splendor, it was too beautiful and be¬ 
longed only to the fairies, but I would 
stand at the limit, a long, long time, and 
feast my eyes. 

In French parks, walking on the grass 
is not allowed, as in American parks. We 
were contented with the wide gravel alleys 
and the Quinconce to run about in, but I 
must confess that sometimes I managed 
to escape the vigilant glance of Mother, 
or Nou-nou, even of the guardian, and 
rushed madly on forbidden lawns in other 
parks of the city, but never in Chamars. 

There, also, were two large fountains, 
which threw over me a real spell, with 
their high crystal lances falling back in 
impalpable floating spray of iridescent 
colors. How I loved to stand face-for¬ 
wards under that dewy shower! 

“ Oh, Georgette,” would exclaim Goby, 
“ you’ll be soaked! ” 

“ Impossible child!” Nou-nou would 
add. “You’ll catch cold!” 


68 WEEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


“ Oh, never, Nou-nou! No, that can’t 
hurt! It’s the dew of the fairies! ” 

But, dew or no dew, on arriving home— 
though I was almost dry—Mother would 
notice the mischief at once, and calmly 
would punish me by holding my head 
under the wide-open tap in the laundry. 

“Be punished the way you sinned!” 
invariably she would say. 

The jet of water was strong and chill¬ 
ing, but the charm of the dew was still on 
me, for I escaped the discomfort by imag¬ 
ining that I was still under the gentle 
fall of the fairies’ spray. Oh, for many 
things I certainly was incorrigible! 

More and more I came to enjoy the city 
and its very life. There I found soldiers 
and music, for Besan^on had a large gar¬ 
rison. Every day, one could hear the 
tramping and the trumpets of a regiment 
passing by, going to drill on the ramparts 
outside the city. 

Every evening, at 9 o’clock, the torch¬ 
light parade passed our very windows, 


CITY JOYS 


69 


with torches of blazing pitch held on high, 
and a thundering music, the soldiers eight 
abreast. My first impression of that be¬ 
wildering spectacle was a blaze through 
the windows of the room, the rattling of 
the window-panes and a great thump of 
my little heart. Can you imagine all that 
together? Fire, music, and soldiers! 

Other sounds awakened at nightfall in 
my city. The bells’ sonorous voices cov¬ 
ered the whole town, slowly, deeply, call¬ 
ing and responding to each other from 
steeple to steeple, and then chanting all 
together in a strange rolling of tones, de¬ 
scending upon one’s heart. One had to 
listen to them, and think of Heavenly 
things. And the church doors would 
open and shut gently, letting through a 
vision of twinkling stars, a perfume of 
incense and a thread of organ chant, as a 
crowd of women in black would enter, one 
by one. 

After the homeward return of the 
workers in a noisy hurry, after the call- 


70 WHEN 1 WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


ing of the bells and the fiery parade, the 
city was plunged in a hushed and cosy 
silence. There were no trolley-cars nor 
automobile noises, such had not yet ap¬ 
peared in our corner of the world; only, 
from time to time, the rattle of a carriage 
on the uneven paving, or the whistle of a 
street urchin. Even to-day, our people 
are not pleasure-seeking. They love their 
homes and enjoy the peace of the evening 
with music, books, or hobbies, with an oc¬ 
casional concert or theatre in the winter¬ 
time. 

Mornings were as lively as the evenings 
were quiet. The city woke up with the 
sun. The cries of peasants and pedlars, 
milkmaids and bakers, rang incessantly as 
they sold their goods from street to street. 
Each hour had its specialty, this one for 
fish, that for flowers, another for pottery, 
and yet another for vegetables. And 
then came the chair-caner, the glazier, the 
pot-mender, the knife-grinder, the buyer 
of rabbit-skins, and the chimney-sweep, 


CITY JOYS 


71 


all shouting robustly or singing their 
trades in century-old verses. And, with 
that, the pistol-like cracking of the whips 
of the wagoners, the chatter and peals of 
laughter from boys and girls going to 
school—the boys on one side of the street, 
the girls on the other—filled the streets 
with an intense pulsation of life. 

On Thursdays and Sundays, the days 
of holiday, the city was still more lively, 
but in a more elegant way. In the morn¬ 
ings, the parks were filled with pic¬ 
turesquely dressed nurses and servants in 
lace caps and floating gay-colored ribbons, 
with little children coquettishly arrayed, 
with bands of orphans in modest uniforms 
under the care of Sisters, and with pupils 
of other institutions who, supervised by 
their masters, played freely in the grav¬ 
elled alleys or under the Quinconce. It 
was the morning for the youth of the city. 

The afternoon belonged to the grown¬ 
ups. The military band, playing excel¬ 
lent music—especially from operas—at- 



72 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


traded all classes and all ages; groups 
formed instinctively. The workmen and 
their families chose one end of the park; 
the elderly ladies and their pet dogs, an¬ 
other end; the society folk had a place for 
themselves; the extremely elegant chose 
one alley; university students and officers, 
another; the young women with their 
mothers or chaperones remained close to 
the fountain, and so on. Never would 
one group infringe upon the place of an¬ 
other. 

Only when twelve years of age were we 
allowed to go to the music in the park. 
Running and laughing were not allowed, 
honneur oblige! We walked up and 
down slowly, hand in hand, Goby and I, 
Mother and my big sisters behind us, 
listening almost religiously to the dra¬ 
matic brass band. When resting at a 
chosen spot, Mother or my sisters would 
explain to us the opera of which the music 
was being played, and tell us the name and 
the story of its author. 


CITY JOYS 


73 


Thus, from an early age, all the per¬ 
sonages of the operatic world became 
familiar to us, and our young ears re¬ 
tained many of those beautiful arias which 
have transported with enthusiasm millions 
of people in all the opera houses of the 
world. 

How I longed for the time to come 
when I should be allowed to go to the 
theatre to see and hear all those fantastic 
people I knew so well already: Faust, 
Lakme, Aida, Manon, Carmen, Rigo- 
letto, la Traviata, Mireille, Werther, 
Lohengrin, Tannhauser, le Barbier de 
Seville, Herodiade, and many others, 
created by those great men: Gounod, 
Delibes, Verdi, Massenet, Berlioz, Thome, 
Wagner, and Mozart. O great charac¬ 
ters, how your sublime accents entranced 
me for hours! I knew your faces, your 
very gestures, though I had never seen 
you! 

Those slow and correct promenades 
around the music stand gave us a solid 


74 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


basis for our musical education, and 
taught us the right way to listen and to 
understand those great compositions, for 
our mind was not distracted by the 
scenery, and only our ears were busy 
translating the story into music. 

They taught us also one thing which 
a French mother considers most important 
for a little girl to learn. That is deport¬ 
ment: the proper way to walk gracefully 
without affectation, the good manner to 
sit down or to get up, how to stand still 
without fidgeting, how to return a greet¬ 
ing pleasantly, and how to talk on the way 
without attracting the attention of the 
passers-by; in short, all those little things 
which make of a little girl a little lady. 

The concert finished, almost every one 
would go to sit in groups of friends 
around little marble tables on the terrace 
of the park to enjoy tea, coffee, syrups, 
cakes, or pastry. To enjoy refreshment 
in the open air, even in the street, on the 
pavement under big canvas awnings, is a 


CITY JOYS 


75 


very characteristic feature of French 
cities. Certain streets and squares are 
quite lively and gaily-hued, especially in 
summer, with the animated crowd sitting 
around the little tables. Every one seems 
joyous, shaking hands, smiling, or greet¬ 
ing acquaintances. But those places of 
leisure, the cafes, are not for little girls, 
and even ladies go there only when ac¬ 
companied by family friends or their hus¬ 
bands. 

More and more I came to enjoy the 
city’s life, as I was more developed to feel 
its charms and attractions. My native 
city was for me beautiful above all things, 
and, in later years, when comparing it 
with other cities I had visited in my 
travels, I found it had not lost its quaint 
old charm. It certainly is a lovely spot, 
and, for me, it is ever—my Besanc^on! 


CHAPTER VIII 

AN ANTIQUE CITY 

Then came the time for me to go to 
school. The way from my home to the 
schoolhouse went through the oldest and 
most interesting part of the city. 

The street climbed all the way, very 
steeply—as it seemed to me, then. It 
passed by a curious tiny park, arranged 
most strangely, as though in the bottom 
of a large pit; then passed under a very 
high arch which filled me with awe and 
astonishment. The arch was made of 
huge blocks of stone, all eaten away by 
time and very black. Big men of stone 
decorated each side, too, and frightened 
me sometimes when I had to pass them 
at dusk in the winter-time. 

Then the street wound up by the foot 
of the old Cathedral, with its characteristic 

rounded steeple and huge clock-face on 

76 



AN ANTIQUE CITY 77 

each side. Farther up still, by large flat 
steps through a space planted with old, 
old linden-trees, full of busy bees in the 
spring-time; yet farther, between high 
convent walls covered with moss and 
clinging flowers; and, at last, to the old 
and large wooden door of the school, an 
ancient convent itself. That road led on 
to the antique citadel, high up on the 
rocks, overlooking the whole city spread 
at its feet like a large grey mantle, and 
surrounded almost entirely as in a circle 
by a lustrous black ribbon—the River 
Doubs. 

The impression of that musty little 
park and of the black arch is inefface¬ 
able from my memory. They puzzled me 
a long, long time. I was curious to know 
their story, and still was afraid to ask 
about them lest I should hear some hor¬ 
rible thing. 

Goby and I often stood gazing at the 
black stone men or at the rusty little gate 
in the park, opening to a dark, dark nar- 


78 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

row passage underground. For months 
I tried to find out by myself a reason for 
those strange things, and for months 
could reach no solution. 

Eut, one day, I fell upon a picture in 
a book of travel, representing an arch very 
much like ours, but it was in Rome. I 
was still more puzzled, for, at school, I 
had not yet heard much about history; I 
was still in the Ecole Maternelle (kinder¬ 
garten). But I decided that I must 
know, right away, why, in Rome, there 
was an arch like the one in Besan^on. 

I ran to Father with the book: 

“ Papa, why is there a ' Porte Noire * in 
Rome? ’’for thus was our arch called. 

“La Porte Noire? In Rome!” He 
looked at me, astonished. 

I showed him the picture. 

“ Oh, you little goose! You mean why 
is there an arch in Besan^on like one in 
Rome? ” 

And, patiently, he told me the whole 
story. 


yminium 



“La Porte Noire.” 

The Roman arch and the “stony men” which frightened me. 
At the back, the Cathedral. 






























































AN ANTIQUE CITY 79 

Then I learned that the great Roman 
general, Julius Caesar, in 58 B. C., came 
into my city and called it Vesontio. Even 
before the Romans it had been a capital, 
that of the Sequani, a Celtic tribe, be¬ 
cause of its exceptionally good strategic 
position. Julius Caesar had his camp 
quite a long time in the citadel. 

Then, a hundred years later, under Ves¬ 
pasian Caesar, it became a colony of the 
great Roman Empire, to which was added 
Helvetia (Switzerland) and a part of 
Germany. The entire territory was called 
tf Maxima Victrix Sequanorum” and 
Besan^on—then Vesontio—the capital, 
was rich and prosperous. Vespasian or¬ 
dered a triumphal arch—one of the first 
ever built—in honor of the loyalty of the 
Sequani, for fighting on the side of the 
Romans during a revolt. The arch was 
not erected until later, in the reign of the 
great emperor, Marcus Aurelius, in 167 
A. D., and it still stands there, almost un¬ 
injured. 


80 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


“ Now/’ I said, “ I sha’n’t again be 
afraid of the stone men; they are too old! ” 
and I laughed. “ But, Papa, tell me, too, 
the story of the little park and the rusty 
gate; I must know! ” 

“ Well, the little park also comes from 
those far-away times. It was a Roman 
theatre, cut in the solid rock. That’s why 
it has the shape of a huge pit, but now it 
is all covered with earth, grass, and flow¬ 
ers. The fine columns, which are still 
erect, marked the entrance of the place. 

“ As to the rusty gate and the dark 
passages, their story is not so pleasant. 
They were used to shut in the Christians 
during the times of the Great Persecu¬ 
tions. Some of the captives managed to 
cut another opening under the rocks and 
thus escaped. One day we’ll go into that 
dark place, and you’ll see it tunnelled like 
a labyrinth, but the other end is blocked 
up, now. 

“ In those times, two great martyrs, St. 
Ferjeux and St. Farraol, were beheaded 


AN ANTIQUE CITY 81 

in the small village now called after them, 
where you went on your walk with your 
mother last week. A most marvellous 
thing happened! After the execution, 
they walked all the way to the citadel, 
carrying their heads in their hands, and 
threw them at the feet of their persecutor, 
the military governor. After that, he 
didn’t dare kill any more Christians, and 
was converted himself, but secretly; al¬ 
most the entire population of Besan^on 
became Christian. Where the saints died 
a little chapel was built, later replaced by 
a bigger church, and, recently, by a fine 
basilica. Thus Besan^on became an im¬ 
portant bishopric as early as the Second 
Century.” 

After hearing all those wonderful 
things about Romans and martyrs, I 
imagined that every house, every square, 
every fountain must have a story of its 
own, and a new longing to know tor¬ 
mented me. I was questioning everybody 
at home incessantly. The city was so full 


82 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


of queer old buildings: towers, doors, 
walls, arcades, bridges, ramparts, grat¬ 
ings, all of great age and looking so full 
of mystery. 

“ Fanny, tell me, what’s that kind of 
iron basket, up there at the end of that 
iron bar, at the corner of the street? Is 
it for the sparrows to make their nests 
in? ” 

“ What funny ideas you’ve got! No, it 
isn’t for the sparrows; it’s very old; it 
dates back to the time when the country 
belonged to the Dukes of Burgundy. It’s 
an antique pitch-burner, to light up the 
street in the old times when there was 
neither oil nor gas. It was filled with 
pitch, and would burn with smoky, flicker¬ 
ing flames all the night through.” 

“ I wish it were still like that! It must 
have been very pretty to see the flames 
dancing in the wind; much prettier than 
gas! ” 

“ Perhaps, but so much more smoky 
and smelly; dangerous, too, for the pitch 


AN ANTIQUE CITY 83 

must have leaked through the basket as it 
melted.” 

“ But I don’t understand yet,” I in¬ 
sisted. “ Besan^on isn’t in Burgundy, 
it’s in Franche Comte. I know it, be¬ 
cause it’s the capital of Franche Comte, 
now.” 

“You are quite right, but that is be¬ 
cause it retained the special privileges 
which it had received from the Romans, 
and, even under the Dukes of Burgundy, 
it remained always a ‘ free county ’ (la 
Franche Comte). That’s one of the 
things which made all the Franc-Comtois 
so independent of character, and we are 
proud of it.” 

My little patriotic heart thrilled. 

“ And I’m proud, too! ” I declared. 


CHAPTER IX 


VIOLIN TIMES 

A great event was on the way to me, 
one which brought me many delights— 
with some fears, too—and which led to 
more revelations about my city. 

I was then exactly seven years old, and 
Mother put in front of me, as a present 
for my birthday, a long stiff bag of brown 
oilcloth, just a little bulging. 

I opened it feverishly, and lo! I pulled 
out of it a violin and its bow. 

Instantly I heard again the violin of 
Monsieur Raoul behind the wall. I stood 
there, holding the violin and gazing at it. 
All my resolutions of that night flashed 
back to my memory. I did not move. I 
just stood there, thinking back to those 
past days. 

“ Well, well, Georgette, what are you 

doing? Won’t you kiss me? Are you 

84 


VIOLIN TIMES 85 

not pleased?” questioned Mother, dis¬ 
satisfied with my cold behavior. 

“ Oh, Mother, pardon me! But I was 
listening to the violin. I assure you it is 
playing! ” 

“ You’re talking nonsense, as always. 
But I thought you wanted to learn the 
violin. Nou-nou told me the story of 
Monsieur Raoul, and I have decided you 
should learn. I have bought the violin 
for you, it is a genuine old one, and I’ll 
get the case another time.” 

“ Oh, Mother! I’ll work ever so hard, 
I promise you, and will play you beauti¬ 
ful tunes, like Monsieur Raoul.” 

“ I hope so,” rejoined my mother. “ So, 
put the violin away by the piano; it’s 
yours. Take care of it! ” 

I had been so much taken by surprise 
that only those last words brought me the 
realization that I had a violin of my own. 
A stream of frantic joy passed through 
me, and I kissed Mother and the violin 
wildly. 


86 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


In the afternoon we went to the violin- 
master of the Music School of the city. 
In France, almost every town has a civic 
music school where any one can learn 
every instrument free; for singing, there 
are special conservatories. Such music 
schools are highly esteemed, for the pro¬ 
fessors are chosen from the great con¬ 
servatories of the nation, and the standard 
is maintained by excessively difficult ex¬ 
aminations, to ensure that only those who 
are naturally talented shall continue. 

The violin-master was a friend of the 
family, and an excellent artist, but I felt 
instinctively that I should have a hard 
master in him, and I was afraid of him. 
Indeed, I had very hard times with him, 
and often wept desperately over the strug¬ 
gles which the violin requires at the first. 

All the same, for Father’s birthday, 
two months later, I managed to play him 
a perfect scale, the famous old tune “ Au 
Clair de la Lune ” by Lully, and a few 
bars of our national hvmn, “ La Marseil - 


VIOLIN TIMES 


87 


laise” My sister Adele accompanied me 
at the piano, and it was a little concert. 
Father could not believe it, for he had no 
idea that I was studying the violin. We 
kept it secret from him, to make him a real 
surprise. 

When I struck the first notes, my ner¬ 
vousness was almost unbearable, certainly 
greater than the stage-fright which seized 
me at my first concert in public. 

Next year, Goby’s turn came, but she 
was more gifted for the piano, and I had 
to help her with the violin a great deal. 
I was proud of my mission and was ter¬ 
ribly hard on her; I was following the ex¬ 
ample of my master. The hour of prac¬ 
tising always began in great earnestness 
and self-control, but, in spite of myself, I 
could not stand the false notes, wrong 
time, bad position, and it ended often in 
tears, quarrels, and even fights. 

“ You’ll never be a good violin-player, 
Goby,” I would say; “ better give it up! ” 

“ Never, never! If you can play, I can 


88 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


play, too! And you can’t play the piano 
as well as I can! ” 

“Oh, the piano!” I would retort. 
“ That mechanical thing! That’s why it’s 
easier for you! ” 

“ It isn’t true, it isn’t true; it’s harder 
than the violin, and that’s why you can’t 
play it! Oh, leave me alone, I don’t want 
your help! ” 

But, when came the time of the lesson 
with the master, our fright of him was so 
intense that we encouraged each other 
mutually, as in front of a common danger. 

“ Don’t be afraid this time, Goby, I’ll 
look at you all the while,” I would say 
encouragingly, as if my gaze could stop 
the terrible explosions of the master. 

“ Good, good luck! ” Goby would whis¬ 
per to me, when it was my turn. 

And, when the lesson was over, our 
mutual congratulations had no end. Such 
was the return home from the music 
school, but, alas, I could not be patient 
with my darling Goby, and my temper 


VIOLIN TIMES 


89 


always carried me away when the prac¬ 
tising began anew. These fluctuations 
were extremely stimulating, and, every 
year, we had the best places in the exam¬ 
inations. 

Once a week we gave a little recital for 
Mother and Father, and sometimes—it is 
unbelievable—the master did us the honor 
to come and listen to us. Our pride was 
boundless. 

O Violin Times, so trying to our tem¬ 
per, yet so rewarding to our efforts, you 
were a great life within our little lives! 

The Music School itself had a real at¬ 
traction for me. It was a big old palace 
overlooking a green promenade full of 
trees. That palace had quite a charm of 
its own, in spite of its severity. It had a 
spacious inward court, perfectly square, 
with arcades and pillars of grey marble 
all around it. In the middle was an im¬ 
posing statue of a cardinal, in white 
marble. 

The ceilings of the arcades were of 


90 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


heavy oaken beams, the upper windows 
on every side—all very regular and large, 
and deeply set in—were divided as by a 
cross of stone. A rusty sun-dial, fixed 
high up on the wall of the promenade, 
marked the time. Very broad granite 
staircases with innumerable low steps, 
opening on the court, led to the single up¬ 
per floor of the palace. One-half of the 
immense building was given over to the 
Music School, the other to a Gallery of 
Paintings. 

The steps were very amusing, one could 
mount them four at a time; the immense 
hall, before reaching the violin room, in¬ 
vited one invincibly to slide upon its 
polished floor. The court was constantly 
plunged in the tumult of music: clarinets, 
trombones, pianos, ’cellos, flutes, violins, 
oboes, all threw disorderly-wise their 
scales or chords through the huge win¬ 
dows into the resounding court. The 
voices of the impatient masters: “ One, 
two, three; one, two! ” or explaining dif- 




My Music School. 

The old courtyard of the Palais Granvelle and the shrewd Cardinal. 























VIOLIN TIMES 


91 


Acuities, gave a finishing touch to that 
perfect cacophony. 

“ Tell me, Adele,”—she accompanied 
us, sometimes, to our lessons—“ this old 
palace wasn’t always a Music School, was 
it? Who used to live in it? ” 

“ Princes and princesses of Spain.” 

“ Then it’s a real ‘ Castle in Spain ’? ” 

She laughed. 

“ Who was the prince, Adele? And 
the-” 

She interrupted me. 

“ After the lesson, we’ll go and sit in 
the promenade, and I’ll tell you the story 
of the Palais Granvelle.” 

That lesson I played miserably; the old 
palace glamor was in the air. Oh, how I 
was scolded that day! And when the 
hour was over, I fled across the hall and 
down those queer, queer stairs in wild 
eagerness to hear all about my “ Castle in 
Spain.” 





CHAPTER X 


SAVED AT A DRAWBRIDGE 

I sped across the park and joined Adele 
under the trees. 

“ It’s a true story, is it? ” I asked, 
breathlessly. 

“ Yes, yes, quite true, and quite simple. 
You know those queer, low steps of the 
palace staircase? ” 

“ Yes! ” 

“ Well, they were built that way, for a 
donkey!” 

“ A donkey? ” 

“ Yes, the donkey of Cardinal Gran- 
velle, to whom the palace belonged. The 
good cardinal used to go up to his own 
bedroom without dismounting from his 
donkey.” 

“ Oh, what a funny man! ” 

“ And, one day, the donkey refused to 

92 


SAVED AT A DRAWBRIDGE 93 

climb the staircase. The cardinal refused 
to go on foot. What was to be done? 
So the cardinal spoke to the donkey: 

“‘Ah! You refuse to climb head¬ 
first, my friend, then you shall climb tail- 
first!’ 

“ And, hop! he changed his seat, sitting 
backwards on the donkey. Holding up 
the animal’s tail, and whipping him, he 
forced the stubborn beast to climb back¬ 
wards.” 

“ It must have looked funny! Is that 
why, when there’s something very difficult 
to do, one says: ' On doit savoir tenir la 
queue de Vane 3 (One must know how to 
hold the donkey’s tail) ? ” 

“Yes, you’ve guessed it; that is a 
proverb peculiar to Besan9on, only. But 
Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle was not 
only a funny man and a cardinal, he was 
also a great statesman, and was chosen 
by Philip II, King of Spain, and later by 
Charles V, the great emperor, as his best 
and ablest counsellor and minister.” 


94 WHEN 1 WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


“ The King of Spain? Why not the 
King of France? ” 

“Ah, that is a little more complicated. 
Follow me closely,” bade Adele. “All 
the kings of France desired very much 
our lovely Franche Comte, which was in¬ 
dependent, in order to add it to their king¬ 
dom. They couldn’t gain it by battle, for 
Besan9on was impregnable, and the peo¬ 
ple fought furiously for their liberties. 

“ When the King of France sent them 
a summons to surrender, they even dared 
to reply:' Comtois, rends-toi? Nenni, ma 
foil ’ (Comtois, surrender? No, by my 
faith!) and this indomitable reply became 
the motto of the county. 

“ The Kings then tried to gain their end 
by royal marriages. 

“A Franc-Comtoise princess, the little 
Mary, was to marry Charles VIII, King 
of France; the people accepted this, for 
then their princess would become the 
queen. Suddenly, though, things turned 
otherwise, and her father married her to 


SAVED AT A DRAWBRIDGE 95 


the Archduke Maximilian of Austria, 
who, later, became emperor. 

“ Their daughter, Margaret, not marry¬ 
ing, Franche Comte stayed under her rule 
until her death. Then it passed into the 
hands of her brother, who, by marrying 
a Spanish princess, had become Philip I, 
King of Spain. That way, Georgette, 
you see, Franche Comte and Besan9on be¬ 
came Spanish. 

“The great conqueror-emperor, 
Charles V, son of Philip I, was too pow¬ 
erful a monarch for the French to dare to 
attack Franche Comte, and so it passed 
on to the hands of Philip II, who chose a 
native of Besant^on for his minister and 
governor of the country. This was the 
funny but clever Cardinal Granvelle. The 
city is very proud of him. He founded 
the University of Besan^on. His admin¬ 
istration was very good and the country 
became quiet and prosperous. 

“ For almost two hundred years, 
Franche Comte was Spanish, but retained 


96 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


all its privileges. That’s why there are so 
many Spanish buildings here: the palace 
of the cardinal, the Town Hall, the Pal¬ 
ace of Justice, several beautiful old man¬ 
sions, and a number of convents and 
cloisters.” 

“ But Franche Comte became French 
again, Adele! How did that happen? ” 

“ Louis XIV, the greatest King of 
France, did it. There was a strong party 
of French sympathizers in the county, and 
that helped the invasion of the French 
army. The Great King, himself, directed 
the conquest, and, in 1678, Besan 9 on had 
to surrender after a hard siege of twenty- 
seven days. In commemoration of this 
brilliant conquest, Louis XIV erected 
two triumphal arches in Paris: the Porte 
St. Denis, and the Porte St. Martin. 

“ Next Sunday, we’ll ask Father to 
take us around the town in a carriage, and 
you’ll see the work of Louis XIV and his 
generals. They made of Besan 9 on a 
veritable stronghold.” 


SAVED AT A DRAWBRIDGE 97 


That proved to be a fascinating drive. 
Father, Goby and I went alone. It was 
a tour for “ les petites” We went first 
from gate to gate, the great gates of the 
city, with their drawbridges, able to span 
an immense circular ditch, around the 
town, at the foot of the ramparts. 

“ Can they still be closed, Papa? ” 

“ Maybe. I’ll ask the guardian.” 

And, to please us, the guardian tried 
his best. 

“ They are still in good condition,” he 
said. “ They might work! ” 

We went inside the arch work of the 
gate, where was a system of wheels and 
chains. With terrible rattlings and bangs, 
the little wheel turned heavily by the 
guardian revolved a big wheel, which set 
small ones to work, and, slowly, the heavy 
bridge, pulled by chains, was raised for us 
and then lowered again. 

“You see,” said Father, “ when pulled 
up, no one could cross the big ditch, which 
then was filled up by water-gates from 


98 WEEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


the river. There are four gates, like that, 
closing access to the whole city.” 

Then we saw the Poudriere (powder- 
house) with curious old triangular towers, 
looking like small pyramids, and walls 
twelve feet thick. Within, gunpowder 
and bullets were kept. 

We went to the foot of the ramparts, 
too, thick like mountains, a good ninety- 
six feet high from the level of the river 
and faced beautifully with smooth granite, 
so that the enemy could have no handhold 
upon it. The top is covered with grassy 
earthwork, where still lie hidden the old 
bronze cannon of the Great King. 

And, to finish, we climbed to the citadel, 
to see the high walls built upon the rocks, 
with their crenelated tops, and their 
meurtrieres, curious crack-like openings in 
the wall, wide inside and verv narrow out- 
side, so that the soldiers of the citadels 
could shoot through at any angle, without 
being shot at. Those walls are ten feet 
thick and fifty feet high. A little covered 


SAVED AT A DRAWBRIDGE 99 

turret, built high upon the wall, just big 
enough for one man—the town watcher— 
dominates the whole city, the valley of the 
Doubs and the surrounding forts, on the 
green mountains beyond the river. 

What a glorious view from up there, 
through the crack of the turret! A coun¬ 
try fit for a king! 

'‘All that was built by Louis XIV and 
this world-famous engineer, Vauban,” 
Father told us, “ and, in the Franco- 
Prussian War of 1870, Besan^on played 
an important part, thanks to its fortifica¬ 
tions. You don’t know, perhaps, that one 
of those gates saved your mother’s life and 
mine? But I’ll tell you about that another 
time.” 

“Oh, no, no, Papa! Please! Tell us 
right now! Which gate was that? ” 

“ La Porte de Battant; you saw it at 
the other end of the city.” 

“ Oh! What happened? ” 

“ I had been chosen by the city as 
Comptroller of the Food-Supply. It was 



> > 
> i ) 


> 



100 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


a terribly cold winter, with many snow¬ 
storms. One night, suddenly, a soldier 
came with a letter from the mayor of the 
little village of St. Claude. I was to go 
right away and get a wagon-load of bags 
of flour which he had been able to secure, 
and to bring them to the city under cover 
of the night. 

“ I was just starting off in the wagon, 
when your mother came running behind 
me. 

“ ‘ I am coming, too,’ she said, very de¬ 
cidedly. ‘ It is better to be two than 
one! ’ 

“ Off we started in the cold, dark, snowy 
night, for the little village fifteen miles 
away. We reached the gate of the city 
and, on being given the password, the 
sentinel opened it. 

“ Now we were in the open country. 
At last we arrived and found the mayor, 
waiting for us in a little cellar, barely 
lighted by a candle. There were the bags 
of flour. 


SAVED AT A DRAWBRIDGE 101 


“ Without noise, as well as we could in 
the dark, we loaded them on the wagon. 

“ We started off again, immediately, 
for we wanted to reach the gate of the city 
before daylight. But, while still a few 
kilometres away, we heard galloping be¬ 
hind us, faint, and far distant. We could 
not see, it was too dark. I whipped the 
two horses frantically, but the galloping 
came closer and closer. 

“ Now, we could see the silhouette of 
the gate against the starry night. 

“ Our horses were flying, but the gal¬ 
loping came still closer. We could hear 
voices, now! 

“ ‘ Stop before the gate, and your life 
is safe! ’ came a shouted order. 

“ I replied with my pistol. 

“And then began a wild race, and shoot¬ 
ing. Happily, the bags of flour protected 
us in the back. 

“Ah, would the sentinel open and shut 
the gate quick enough? 

“ I screamed the password at the top of 



102 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

my voice, and the warder, guessing what 
was happening, had the drawbridge al¬ 
ready half-way down. 

“ I threw the horses on it just before it 
touched ground. We went over and 
through like a thunderclap. 

“ The riders came just in time to have 
the bridge raised at their ugly noses. 

“ One minute more, and they had 
caught us! They were German hussars. 

“ Those few bags of flour were the last 
I could get for a long time. Soon enough 
came the days when we were pleased with 
dog cutlets! ” 

“ Oh, Papa, it must have been dreadful! 
How good it was that Louis XIV built 
those good old gates! ” I said, relieved. 

He laughed and kissed me. 

That night, I dreamed of the Roman 
legions, and the Spanish battalions, and 
the French musketeers, all passing 
through La Porte de Battant, my father 
at their head, and the gate closing heavily 
of itself at the hated faces of the Germans. 



The Basilica of St. Ferjeul, Built on the Very Spot 

WHERE THE MARTYRS WERE EXECUTED AND BURIED. 



The Quinconce of Chamars, where I Spent Many Happy 

Hours of my Childhood. 



























































































CHAPTER XI 


KINDERGARTEN DAYS 

It was in the Ecole Maternelle (kinder¬ 
garten) of the Ecole Normale that, from 
the first day on, I learned my alphabet 
and my numbers. The Normal School, in 
France, trains teachers for the Superior 
Schools, and, in order that those pupil- 
teachers may learn at once how to man¬ 
age children, there is always a kinder¬ 
garten and two years of primary studies 
under their care, themselves being under 
the direction of professors of pedagogy. 

Letters attracted me very much. I im¬ 
agined them to be all kinds of things: an 
“ m ” was for me a bridge with two arches, 
an “ n ” was an archway, an “A” was a 
steeple, a “ P ” was a path leading to a 
pond, a “ d ” was another path leading to 
a smaller pond, an “ o ” was an egg, an 

“ s ” was a little wriggling worm, a “ v ” 

103 


104 WHEN 1 WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


a flying bird, and so on. They were good 
friends to me. 

But numbers! They were my bitter 
and hated enemies! Instinctively they 
tormented me and put me to sleep with 
awful nightmares. They tortured me and 
racked my brain, and mathematics has al¬ 
ways been my weakest point. Yet they 
taught me how to control myself, and to 
reason with exactitude. 

There also I learned, from the first day 
on, fascinating things about Nature and 
about handicrafts, in lessons called 
“ Le 9 ons de Choses.” In France, chil¬ 
dren are familiarized with Natural His¬ 
tory and a knowledge of things surround¬ 
ing them, as early as possible. 

My first “ Le^on de Choses ” is quite 
fresh in my memory. The teacher had a 
bird’s nest on her desk, also a little stuffed 
red-breast. One by one we were asked to 
go and look at them very carefully and to 
say what we noticed. The teacher helped 
us with questions or with answers to our 


KINDERGARTEN DAYS 


105 


own questions, and so, in an interesting 
conversational way, we learned all about a 
little bird’s life, the differences between 
birds and other animals, the usefulness of 
birds, why we must protect them, and so 
on. 

The next day—for we had a “ Le 9 on - 
de Choses ” every day—the teacher would 
tell us the story of an ordinary piece of 
chalk, of a mother-of-pearl button, of a 
piece of paper, of glass, or talk about 
clouds, or a beetle, or a piece of bread. 
So, when a little French girl leaves the 
Kindergarten, to enter the Primary 
School, she has a respectable amount of 
general knowledge in her head, besides all 
kinds of songs and poetry, and even the 
art of holding a needle. 

In addition to good and graceful man¬ 
ners, to know how to sew is an all-im- - 
portant attainment for a French girl. I 
was not quite two years old when Mother 
put into my hands a threaded needle and 
a little piece of stuff. She showed me how 


106 WHEN 1 WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


to pass it through the material. I pricked 
my little fingers, but a kiss on the place 
and the pain was over. I entangled my 
thread, but, all the same, I managed to 
make a few crooked stitches. 

Every day Goby and I had our little 
sewing lessons with Fanny or Adele or 
Mother. So, when I went to the Kinder¬ 
garten, a needle was quite familiar to me, 
and I could begin tapestry with colored 
wool on canvas, and stitch the whole al¬ 
phabet and little landscapes—with houses 
and animals—in cross-stitch of red silk on 
very fine linen. It was my very first hand¬ 
made gift for Mother’s birthday. I was 
very proud of it, for I was the youngest 
of my division. 

But what remains most vividly in my 
memory of those Kindergarten days are 
the recess periods, spent in the garden of 
the school. It was spacious and beautiful, 
having been the garden of an old convent. 
Tall pine-trees and cypresses were planted 
all around it, and, behind them, the thick 



KINDERGARTEN DAYS 


107 


high wall all studded with pieces of 
broken glass on the top, seemed to me to 
reach almost as high as the trees. 

In recess time, we were quite free to 
play as we pleased, and, even on the very 
first day, I wanted already to lead all my 
little schoolmates. I always had some 
scheme in my head, but never was it a 
game in which one had to count points. I 
hated counting—it would have spoiled all 
my pleasure. Hopping in a circle, singing 
songs, was very nice, but it was always the 
same. 

“ What,” I suggested to my little com¬ 
panions, one day, “ what if we were play¬ 
ing at fairies? Like this: I’ll be the fairy, 
I’ll climb on that branch, and, from there. 
I’ll give you all you want. You’ll come 
and dance around the tree, and, when I 
clap my hands, you’ll stop. Then each 
in turn will ask me for something, and I’ll 
touch you with my magic wand. The one 
who dances the best shall be the fairy, 
next.” 


108 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

“ Yes, yes! Let us do that! ” was the 
enthusiastic reply. 

One, two, three! Hop! I was on the 
branch. I have always been a wild tree- 
climber. 

The dance began with peals of laughter 
and naive gestures. 

“ Stop! ” I clapped my hands. “ What 
do you wish for, Marthe? ” 

“ Oh, Fairy; I wish for a silver 
thimble! ” 

With much dignity I would touch her 
upon the head with a long sapling, for my 
wand, and throw in her apron a leaf from 
the tree, supposed to be the silver thimble. 

“ Oh, how beautiful! Thank you, Good 
Fairy! ” 

General admiration. 

“ What do you wish for, Louise? ” 

“ Oh, Fairy,” with a curtsey, “ give me 
a pound of chocolate! ” 

General laughter, and a handful of 
leaves was thrown at her face. 

“ What do you wish for, Marie? ” 


KINDERGARTEN DATS 109 

“ Oh, Fairy, I would love a little pet 
cat!” 

And so the comedy continued. 

French children are much given to 
games of imagination. Our recess times 
are very short, seven minutes in the morn¬ 
ing and fifteen in the afternoon; that is all 
for the whole day. So we have too short 
a time for bigger games. Our working 
hours are much longer and our lessons 
more numerous than in American schools, 
for we go to school from 8 to 12 o’clock, 
and from 1 to 6 and even to 7 o’clock in 
the upper classes. Each lesson is an 
hour long, never less, and certain subjects 
—such as sewing, drawing, theory of 
music, and gymnastics—last two hours. 

The end of my first Kindergarten year 
was nearing, and the ceremony of Prize- 
Giving Day—of which I had heard mar¬ 
vels—did not leave my thoughts, day or 
night, for weeks ahead of the time. 
Though it seemed as though it would never 
come, it really came at last! 



CHAPTER XII 


PRIZE-GIVING DAY 

That glorious day of Prize-Giving 
closes the school year and opens the sum¬ 
mer holidays. It happens on a beautiful 
warm summer day, late in July, the 30th 
or 31st, and it means that until October 
—an eternity to little folk—there will be 
no more school at all. 

Though I loved to go to school, I must 
confess that this perspective was a very 
pleasant one. Above all, the Prize-Giv¬ 
ing Day to begin with! I have no words 
to tell what a thrill it gave me. Goby 
and I talked of it incessantly. 

When the day arrived, I woke up al¬ 
most feverish. We were to put on quite 
new frocks, of pale green muslin, and to 
have our hair floating down the back, a 

thing which JMother allowed but very, 

110 


PRIZE-GIVING DAY 


111 


very rarely, and which was absolutely for¬ 
bidden at school. 

“ Oh, Goby, shall we wear ribbons in 
our hair? And what color will be the 
sashes? Did Mother tell you? Nou-nou 
told me it was to be a surprise for us. I 
asked the seamstress, but she wouldn’t say 
a word. I do hope they won’t be black, I 
hate black! 

“ Oh, Nou-nou, do make haste and 
finish buttoning me in the back. I hear 
Mother coming! I’m sure she’s bringing 
the ribbons! ” 

“ But if you wriggle all the time, 
Georgette, it becomes all unbuttoned 
again. Do stay still a minute! ” 

But how could I? 

Mother came in with a big cardboard 
box under her arm. 

“ Oh, Mother, Mother! The sashes! 
The ribbons! What color? ” 

“ I said it was to be a surprise. So, 
don’t be so curious,” said Mother, calmly, 
cooling our eagerness. “ Wait patiently; 


112 WHEN 1 WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

and I’ll ask you, both of you, to close your 
eyes while I tie the sashes on you.” 

This was almost too much! 

And she added: 

“ If you try to look before I tell you, 
you shall not wear them! ” 

Mother always kept her word, so we 
did not even wink, and kept our eyes closed 
tight, while she was busy arranging with 
her own hands the ribbons and the sashes. 

Would they be pink? Or yellow? Or 
crimson? All the colors of the rainbow 
danced before my closed eyes. 

Stealthily, I felt the material with the 
tips of my fingers, as if I could see with 
them. I received a sharp tap on the in¬ 
quisitive hand. 

“For your impatience, you shall open 
your eyes after Goby! ” came the maternal 
reproach. 

And Goby was ready long before me. 

But, oh! my long-blinded awaiting was 
not disappointed. 

On opening my eyes, at last, I saw 


PRIZE-GIVING DAY 


113 


Goby radiant with a lovely sash of the 
softest cream satin, and a huge bow of 
the same soft ribbon, but narrower, in her 
long floating brown hair. 

“ Oh , Goby, que tu est belle! ” I ex¬ 
claimed, ravished. 

And, to complete the surprise, Mother 
led us in front of the large mirror in her 
room. 

The picture is still in my eyes. 

We were almost of the same size, and 
we looked the happiest little dolls in the 
world. And both of us began to dance 
and to hop, to the great delight of Nou- 
nou. We kissed Mother and Adele and 
Fanny, who had come to enjoy the pic¬ 
ture, as well as Nou-nou and each other 
and everybody. 

That ribbon and that sash, I have them 
still. I keep them as dear, dear old 
friends. 

“ Now, Little Ones, we must start. It 
is already half-past eight, and the cere¬ 
mony begins at nine! ” 


114 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

The whole family, even Nou-nou, ac^ 
companied us. 

On the way, we met many of our little 
school-friends, all, like us, in fresh summer 
frocks, bareheaded and with floating hair. 

When we arrived, the court was already 
quite full of children, parents and friends. 
The little girls behaved like little ladies, 
in their new toilettes, careful not to crush 
them. 

How we looked at each other! We all 
looked so different from our appearance 
in the ordinary school attire, which, in 
France, is very severe and simple. All 
pupils—boys and girls—must always 
wear a long, black, cotton apron, closing 
in the back, with long sleeves and a belt, 
so as to hide the entire clothing. 

Ribbons are not allowed in the girls’ 
hair, and even curls are forbidden, those 
girls who disobeyed the rule being sum¬ 
marily led under the tap. We used to 
wear our hair plaited in one single plait. 
Of course, no jewels at all, and parents 



PRIZE-GIVING DAY 


115 


trying to evade the custom received no¬ 
tice from the headmistress calling their at¬ 
tention to the duty of clothing their chil¬ 
dren in all simplicity for school-time. 

So, one can understand our joy on 
Prize-Giving Day, when it is almost a 
shame not to appear at your very best. 
Thus, that morning, the old garden looked 
quite bright and happy with all those fresh 
summer colors. 

A bell rang at nine o’clock. It was the 
signal to leave our parents, and to take 
our places in order, as we had rehearsed 
the day before, under long parallel 
benches under the trees in the front gar¬ 
den. At the other end, chairs were pre¬ 
pared for the guests. In the middle, a 
wooden platform with a canopy had been 
built for the teachers, professors, and in¬ 
spectors. The steps and floor of the stand 
were covered with a red cloth, and green 
shrubs and flowers garnished the edge. 

A hush rang through our ranks. The 
headmistress—whom everybody loved—• 



116 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

appeared with the staff of the school and 
took her place on the red plush armchair 
behind the big tables, draped also in red 
cloth, all laden with superbly bound books 
and piles of little laurel crowns of green 
and gold paper. 

As soon as all the professors were 
seated, a beautiful chorus arose; it was the 
pupil-teachers, singing a patriotic song. 
After loud applause came our turn, with 
two shorter songs about our beloved 
Franche Comte and our dear old school. 
Renewed applause. 

Then followed a speech by the headmis¬ 
tress, telling how the joy of work brings 
the joy of holidays, and how we ought to 
enjoy Nature for the two long months to 
return with new strength of body and 
heart for our next school year. Long ap¬ 
plause. Another professor said a few 
words about the books which were going 
to be distributed, and how we ought to 
keep them as good friends. 

Then the distribution began. 


PRIZE-GIVING DAY 


117 


Class by class, division by division, one 
by one, we were called to the tribune of 
honor. How trembling with pride and 
shyness, at the same time, I crossed the 
sunny space to the tribune, in front of 
everybody, on hearing my name. 

“ Georgette Beuret! Ecole Maternelle. 
Premiere Division. Premiere Price de 
Couture (First Prize for Sewing)! ” 

Oh, what a book! All bound in red 
leather, gilded at the edges! I received it 
from the headmistress’ white-gloved 
hands and she placed on my head a crown 
of green laurels. 

I made her a deep curtsey. 

I almost tottered going back to my 
place, and I caught happy smiles on the 
faces of my dear ones. I seized Goby’s 
hand, as she sat behind me, and squeezed 
it hard. 

“ Gabrielle Beuret! Ecole Maternelle. 
Premiere Division. Premiere P ri cv 
d J Arithmetique !" 

That one I never got! 


118 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


She was still shyer than I was, and mak^ 
ing her curtsey, the poor little one almost 
fell down. I felt my heart in my throat. 

The calling went on until almost noon, 
for the pupil-teachers also received their 
prizes. Goby’s name and mine were called 
once more, she for Geography, and I for 
Le9ons de Choses, with honor, and a 
golden wreath. 

For discipline’s sake, we were not al¬ 
lowed to open the books until the cere¬ 
mony was over, and I must say that every 
child bravely kept the book closed to the 
last minute. It was hard, though, for a 
speech from the Inspector closed the cere¬ 
mony, and the whole school, little ones and 
big ones, sang heartily the Marseillaise. 

Then came a great rush and disorder, 
all the little folk running to their parents. 
Kisses and compliments could be heard 
everywhere. 

“ Maman! Papa! Regardez mes price! 
Oh, Juliette, montrez moi les tiens! ” 

And all the little heads, crowned with 


PRIZE-GIVING DAY 


119 


gold or green laurels, bending with float¬ 
ing hair over their books, in the brilliant 
sunshine or under the trees, gave a curious 
and symbolic picture of the eagerness of 
youth to learn. But a few little girls 
looked sad or ashamed; their hands were 
empty. 

Bad-will, laziness, and inattention are 
strictly punished in our schools. In the 
upper classes, the pupils guilty of lack of 
discipline or of laziness must write down 
their fault in detail and bring back the 
note to the headmistress, signed by their 
parents, in addition to the punishment of 
copying so many pages, or standing apart 
from the others. It means many scold¬ 
ings and shamed feelings. 

French children are very sensitive to 
this, and if a pupil is caught lying in the 
slightest degree, she must confess the lie 
in front of the whole class, and make pub¬ 
lic amendment. If a great piece of mis¬ 
chief has been done and the guilty will 
not speak, then the whole class is pun- 


120 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

ished, in order that the mischief-maker 
may not escape punishment. 

That Prize-Giving Day ended my Kin¬ 
dergarten year. In fact, in France, that 
year is quite important in itself, forming 
the child for its whole school-life. I felt 
very much that I was not sent there only 
to play, but to learn something, seriously, 
that I had to obey rules and discipline, 
also that I had to do everything as well 
as I possibly could. All those impres¬ 
sions were very strong in me, and the les¬ 
sons of my kindergarten year stood me in 
good stead all through life. 



Where Barbisier points to the Star, as the neighbors sing 

rejoicings. 



Where Lawyer Bartholo pleads before the manger for the people 

of BesanQon. 

La Creche, Our Christmas Puppet-Show. 














CHAPTER XIII 


THE PATH OF LEARNING 

The next years were to prove a great 
forward step, in entering the Primary 
School. Studies began to be really hard 
and serious. One new subject, especially, 
filled me with a feeling of dignity quite 
unknown to me before that time. This 
was the “ Le9on de Morale ” or Ethical " 
Teachings. 

In France, great stress is laid on that 
teaching. In every school, whether for 
girls or boys, little or big, in the smallest 
hamlet or in the biggest city, the school- 
day begins invariably with an hour of 
“ morale.” 

These lessons are real lectures, to which 

one must listen in perfect silence and with 

great attention. No fidgeting is allowed, 

and, to prevent this, we must—as in other 

121 


122 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


lessons—keep our arms folded across the 
chest, sitting bolt upright; no leaning back 
is permitted. 

In these lessons, children are told of 
their duties towards their parents, their 
elders, their country, their homes, their 
fellows, those smaller than themselves, and 
to animals. They are told of goodness, 
charity, justice, honor and self-respect; of. 
the consequences of good and evil; and 
especially of their conscience, that inner 
voice which protests so much when we 
want to do what we ought not to do. 
Great emphasis is laid upon that point; 
the development of conscience in the child, 
which makes out of him, later, a woman or 
a man with strong moral courage and self- 
respect. 

Every Saturday, as homework, we had 
to write down a short resume of the 
Lemons de Morale of the whole week, just 
as we had understood and felt them. It 
had to be quite personal and straight out 
of our little brains. The best one and the 


THE PATH OF LEARNING 123 

worst one were read and discussed in front 
of the whole class, so that each little girl 
could judge by herself the “ why ” of the 
good and bad points. These discussions 
used to excite me wildly, and often we 
carried them on, even during recess time. 
Mother and Father always read our 
resume de morale, so as to follow each for¬ 
ward step; and the discussions at home 
were even more earnest than those at 
school. 

Mother’s last words, when kissing us 
“ Good-night,” always were: 

“ Don’t forget, Little Ones, your Ex¬ 
amination of Conscience! And make 
good resolutions for to-morrow! ” 

So, well tucked into our little beds, in 
the quietness of our room, quite dark, with 
all the intense earnestness of childhood I 
looked deep, deep within me, bringing 
back to the surface all that I had done 
wrong in the course of the day, and ask¬ 
ing myself why I had not tried to do bet¬ 
ter, when it had been so easy. A feeling 


124 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

of shame crept over me. I hid my head 
under the blanket as if some one pointed 
at me. 

“ Shame on you! ” a Voice seemed to 
say. “You disobeyed your mother! You 
have disturbed the peace of the home! At 
school you were inattentive, and wasted 
your time and the time of others! Shame 
on you! You pained your mother and 
father! ” 

An even greater feeling of repentance 
swept over me. I cried silently: 

“ Mother, I won’t disobey you any 
more! I won’t waste my time at school 
any more. You shall be pleased with 
me!” 

A great soothing calm followed that in¬ 
ward storm; my conscience was appeased. 
I felt better, and cleansed. 

Often I heard Goby crying, too, in 
stifled little sobs. 

“ Goby, don’t cry; to-morrow we’ll be 
quite good! And Mother won’t be 
angry.” 


THE PATH OF LEARNING 125 

And, on tiptoe, I would go to Goby’s 
bed, and kiss her tenderly; her arms 
around my neck would not let me go. 

“Yes, to-morrow I’ll be good! ” 

But the morrow came, and with it all 
our naughtinesses, and, with them, the 
punishments. 

All the same, the good habit of inspect¬ 
ing our conscience every evening helped us 
a great deal to acquire control over our 
bad sides and to develop our better ones. 
The habit is so strong that even to-day 
before falling asleep I ask myself what 
have I done wrong or right, and what I 
ought to do better. 

Mother used to punish us with great 
justice, but without indulgence. From an 
old Huguenot family, herself, she had 
been brought up very rigidly. I shall 
never forget a certain little catastrophe, 
which sticks out of my childhood memories 
like a long, painful thorn. 

One day—I was about ten years old— 
Mother had decided I should wear a 


126 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

r 

pretty lace petticoat which had belonged 
to my sister Adele. It had become too 
short for her, but was a little too long for 
me. 

“You must shorten it by sewing a large 
tuck above the lace so that it does not show 
below your skirt. And make small 
stitches, that it does not become unsewn! ” 

I sewed it as quickly as I could. I 
wanted to wear it that very afternoon, for 
the walk in the Park. 

“ Finished, Mother! ” 

“ ShoAv it to me! ” 

She frowned, looked at me, but said 
nothing. 

“ Can I wear it for the walk to-day? ” 

“ You vain child! That’s why you 
sewed it in such a hurry. Very well, you 
shall wear it! ” Her tone was half-laugh¬ 
ing, half-threatening. 

I ran about wildly that afternoon in the 
Park, desiring that people should notice 
the pretty lace. When back home, Mother 
led me in front of her large mirror. 


THE PATH OF LEARNING 127 

“ See, silly child, how your vanity has 
interfered with your good sense and mod¬ 
esty ! ” 

And she pointed to the edge of my skirt 
behind. 

O dear me, dear me! Why, my petti¬ 
coat was half unsewn and showing a good 
hand’s-breadth below the skirt, a most 
shameful thing for a French girl of good 
breeding! 

“ Oh, Mother,” I said, reddening, “ I’ll 
sew it back, right away! ” 

“ No, no; it is too late, you shall not! 
And you’ll wear it that way each time you 
go to the Park, for a week! Be punished_ 
the way you sinned! ” 

And she closed the door. 

And I had to! It was a terrible thing 
to have to walk, conscious of that disgrace, 
but oh! how small were the stitches when 
I was allowed to sew it back! 


CHAPTER XIV 


MY BIRTHDAY 

July was really a wonderful month, all 
through, full of joyous events. To begin 
with, my birthday on the eleventh, to finish 
with, the Prize-Giving Day, and, in be¬ 
tween, our great National Festival, the 
14th of July. 

My birthday was very simply cele¬ 
brated, as was every birthday in the fam¬ 
ily. Mother did not like to make much 
of it, but, all the same, I enjoyed it hugely 
for, if it were on a holiday, I was allowed 
to do just what I liked best all the day 
long, provided that it were reasonable. 
No work at all, except schoolwork! If it 
were on a school-day, the next Thursday 
or Sunday was given to me instead. 

Mother offered me, generally, a piece 

of music for the violin, a good kiss, and 

128 


MY BIRTHDAY 


129 


plenty of advice and counsel for my new 
year, as well as praises for what I had 
done best in the past one. Father brought 
me a book of travels; I love them! My 
sisters gave me some little piece of work 
made by their own hands. Nou-nou pre¬ 
pared a big dish of “ gaudes ” for my 
breakfast, a special kind of porridge made 
from the finest maize flour—the national 
dish of Franche Comte, brought by the 
Spaniards, from America. It is exquisite 
to the palate, and I was absurdly fond of 
it. 

But what filled me with incomparable 
joy was the idea of being free to do what 
pleased me, all day long. Goby and I, 
several days ahead, planned an extra¬ 
ordinary and over-full programme, which, 
of course, could never be quite carried out. 

As it was full summer, the out-of-doors 
had an irresistible attraction. Following 
the custom of the province, my family pos¬ 
sessed several large gardens and vineyards 
outside the city, upon the hills, for our 


130 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

own vegetables, fruits, flowers, and the 
pleasures of the country. One of them 
was my especial favorite. 

“ Oh, Goby, we’ll go to Bregille (the 
favorite garden), right after breakfast, 
and hunt for beetles and fossils. And 
we’ll draw them for our collection. We’ll 
lunch on the rocks, too, and play a comedy 
around the fountain. Nou-nou will play 
it with us. After supper we’ll have a little 
concert for Mother and Papa.” 

Such was a typical birthday pro¬ 
gramme. 

The hunt for beetles was a wild one. 
A large corner of the garden was covered 
with mossy rocks and broken boulders; 
we called it: “ JLe Paradis ” It was a real 
place of delight for us, and I never saw 
any place so full of vivid-colored beetles 
of every kind, and of aromatic rock- 
flowerets. 

To catch the beetles was not easy, for 
they run very fast to hide in cracks, and 
we had to jump from rock to rock; but 


MY BIRTHDAY 


131 


what a scream of victory when one was 
captured! Quickly it was confined in a 
perforated tin box for the purpose, and 
we gave it flowers and grass to make it 
feel happier. 

Then came the fossil-hunting, much 
quieter, but fully as exciting. The Jura 
Mountains, in which range lies Besan^on, 
are very, very old, and they still contain 
the remains of curious lizards, shells, 
worms, all turned into stone—the fossils. 
For those we had to scratch the earth with 
our fingers, or break the rock with another 
stone. Often we found a curious speci¬ 
men, but more often we found nothing. 
All the same, the fun was great, and our 
little collection grew. 

Fossil-hunting over, it was lunch-time. 
What an appetite! But we hurried over 
it in order to come back to our beloved 
beetles. 

“ Now, let us choose one,” would say 
Goby. “ I choose this red-and-grey 
striped one.” 



132 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

“ Oh, look at this one: yellow, with little 
green dots. I’ll take that one! ” 

The choosing was certainly a great part 
of the fun, but the most enjoyable was the 
drawing of them. We selected a shady 
place and sat on the grass. Between us, 
on the ground, we placed a little plate, the 
chosen beetles upon it, and, quickly, over 
them, an ordinary glass upside down. 
That way we could see the little animals 
going up and down, and round and round 
the glass. We could see the legs and feel¬ 
ers ever so well, and, in utter silence, using 
colored chalks, we began to draw the 
funny little creatures in our albums. We 
were very fond of drawing. 

“ Oh, mine is getting beautiful! But 
don’t look at it, now, Goby! ” 

“ Sh! Don’t talk, Georgette! ” 

“ Oh, oh, look! Mine is combing his 
antennas! I must draw him that way! 
He looks so funny! ” 

And so exclamations from time to time 
broke our religious silence. 


MY BIRTHDAY 


133 


“Finished!” And I would jump up 
in glee, dancing around, album in air. 

“ Oh, wait a bit, Georgette; I must give 
mine just one more leg; he has only five.” 

“Make haste; Nou-nou is calling for 
the ‘ gouter ’ (the usual “ snack ” at five 
o’clock, fruits and pastry, but no tea).” 

“ Nou-nou, Nou-nou, look! Which one 
do you prefer? ” we would cry as we ran 
to her, showing our drawings from far 
away, each having an enormous beetle, 
vividly colored. 

“Ah, mes enfants } they are superb! 
Just like walking melons! ” 

We burst into laughter. She had al¬ 
ways something funny to say, good Nou- 
nou. 

“ You’ll play the comedy with us, won’t 
you? You’ll be the Grandmother; Goby, 
Little Red Riding Hood; and I, the 
Wolf! Hou! Hou! Hou!” I showed 
all my teeth. 

That day we had decided upon Little 
Red Riding Hood. To tell of the frantic 


134 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


joy of such a comedy, all improvised, in a 
garden around a playing fountain, on a 
summer afternoon, on one’s own birthday, 
is impossible. Even to-day, when I think 
of it, I feel wolf-like. 

On the way home, at dusk, we would 
already discuss the next play for the next 
birthday. 

We ate our supper quickly, for we had 
our little concert to give before nine 
o’clock, bedtime. 

It was a serious affair, quite ceremoni¬ 
ous, in the drawing-room, with all the 
candles lighted. Father, Mother, my 
eldest sisters, sometimes friends, and gen¬ 
erally our violin master, all sat gravely 
around the room. 

We began in a hush, trembling a little. 
Father was always the first to applaud, 
and Mother to ask for another piece. 
Then everybody criticized this and that, 
with encouraging tones. Nou-nou brought 
in refreshing drinks, cakes and fruits, and 
that was the end of a beautiful day. 



Left Side. Front. Right Side. 

The Famous Astronomical Clock. 

This clock, in the Cathedral of Besan^on, contains 30,000 
pieces of mechanism, has 72 faces, and records all 
planetary movements and tides all over 
the world. 




























CHAPTER XV 


BASTILLE DAY 

Three days later came the Fourteenth 
of July. 

Boom! Boom! Boom! 

Thus spoke the deep voice of the cannon 
from the citadel, at dawn, spreading all 
over city and country, already awake, the 
commemoration of another dawn—the 
dawn of liberty, so dearly paid with blood 
in 1789 by the French nation, when the 
Paris mob seized the State Prison of La 
Bastille, a symbol of despotism. 

On this day, over every city, big or 
small, the cannon thunders for an hour 
long, at dawn, at noon, and at sunset. 

" Goby! Goby! Le canon! L’en- 
tends-tu? ” 

I shake her out of bed and we run to 
the window. 


135 



136 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

The street is already full of people, and 
the fresh air of dawn seems in efferves¬ 
cence. Big flags flip and flap at every 
window and balcony, even at the garrets; 
flags of red, white, and blue, the national 
colors, also of black, yellow, and red, the 
city colors, all mixed up. Fresh green 
garlands of oak-leaves, and of roses, bal¬ 
ance in the air from house to house. 

A carpet of flowers—marguerites, blue 
cornflowers and red poppies—hangs from 
our balcony; the whole family and the two 
servants worked at it feverishly the whole 
day before. Late in the night, Father 
himself fixed a city flag at all the other 
windows, and garlands were hung in be¬ 
tween. I wished the flowers would never 
fade, and I so loved the flapping of the 
flags. 

Bands of peasants, dressed up in their 
best, mounted on decorated farm-wagons, 
gay with flags and flowers, or on horses 
caparisoned from nose to tail, rush noisily, 
with laughter, songs, and cracking of 


BASTILLE BAY 


137 


whips, down the street. They come from 
far, and have been rolling the whole night 
to see the Grand Review of soldiers at 
Chamars, in the great park. One must 
be there, very early, in order to have even 
a standing-place, for the Review begins at 
seven o’clock. 

Soon the soldiers of the citadel come 
down, too; their blaring trumpets and roll¬ 
ing drums shake the air, their steps, the 
soil. The bayonets, the sabres, the but¬ 
tons, the buckles, even the polish of the 
boots, flash rhythmically to the music. 
From our window it is a wonderful sight 
to behold. 

“ Now, Little Ones, quick, swallow your 
breakfast, and let us go,” calls Mother. 

The rush in the house is frantic. We 
do not want to miss the entrance of the 
troops and all the dignitaries of the city, 
at Chamars. We almost run down the 
streets. Everywhere, flags, flags, flags, 
garlands, flowers, sunshine and people. I 
want to dance and sing! 


138 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

Our places are reserved in the grand¬ 
stand, with red plush, gold fringes, and 
green shrubs, and the arms of the city em¬ 
broidered in gold. There we must behave 
exemplarily. 

Father leaves us and joins the other 
dignitaries of the city, all in silk hats, 
frock coats, and white gloves. In that 
ceremony, ladies have their own places, 
apart. 

The park is simply packed, and the 
noise of the crowd is like the rumbling of 
the sea. 

Seven o’clock! Boom! 

“ Les voila! Les voila! ” 

A shiver of impatience runs through the 
whole crowd. Faces and necks turn, as 
by magic, to the grand entrance. 

" Les voila !" 

The troops, superb, impeccable, with 
their respective flags and bands, cross the 
sunny space and group themselves, regi¬ 
ment by regiment, under the plane-trees. 

Then follow the high dignitaries; the 


BASTILLE DAY 


139 


Prefect, the Mayor, the Judges, the Pro¬ 
fessors, the aldermen and municipal au¬ 
thorities. Some were in embroidered uni¬ 
forms, cocked hats, tri-color sashes around 
the waist and across the chest, or in long 
black robes. Follow the high prelates of 
the church: the Archbishop in violet silk 
robes and white lace, large felt hat, all his 
attendant clergy and acolytes in violet or 
purple vestments, many with bejewelled 
crosses scintillating on the chest. Those 
very important personages look all very 
dignified, and the crowd is silent. They 
take their places gravely in the grand 
stand, right on the front. 

Suddenly, the Marseillaise bursts out 
from under the plane-trees. All the bands 
play it together. Everybody stands up, 
as if moved by a single spring; men and 
boys with heads bared. We listen to our 
National Anthem with great reverence. 
I feel deeply moved; the beautiful tune 
seems to rise in the sunny morning as a 
single heroic column to the sky. 


140 WHEN 1 WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


After the last chords, the Grand Re¬ 
view begins. Sharp, curt military orders 
resound here and there. The companies 
and regiments defile proudly in front of 
the brilliant group of generals mounted on 
superb horses, and pass by the grand 
stand. Military exercises of extreme pre¬ 
cision follow, which fascinate me. 

Oh, those fiery horses, galloping so 
furiously, all kept in such rigid lines—if 
one of them should fall! But, no, they all 
stop at a signal as one solid mass. 

And the guns! Hauled at a swift trot, 
halted, unlimbered, limbered, all in the 
twinkle of an eye. 

The crowd cheers the soldiers: 

“ Vive Varmee! Vive les dragons! 
Vive les artilleurs! Vive le General! ” 

Then comes the moving ceremony of 
the bestowing of decorations for those who 
have distinguished themselves for patriotic 
service, and the decoration of the flags of 
regiments which have achieved some signal 
distinction. This goes on until noon. 


BASTILLE DAY 


141 


The heat beats down, but no one feels it. 

Boom! Boom! The cannon’s roar 
closes the Review. 

The scramble in the street is great. 
Everybody rushes home for a copious 
lunch, and joy sits around the table. We 
always had friends with us for that day, 
and invariably my Uncle Louis, General 
of the Algerian Spahis, one of the most 
famous cavalry corps of the French co¬ 
lonial army. 

“ Mother, shall we go and see the 
menagerie, the booths, and the side-shows 
at the Fair in the Park Micaud? And 
may we look at the obstacle races, the 
climbing of the greased pole, the crossing 
of the river on a rolling log, and all the 
funny things? ” 

“ Yes, with Adele, Fanny, and Nou- 
nou. I’ll stay home with your father; he 
needs a rest. You know he has to super¬ 
vise the illuminations of this evening.” 

The illuminations were a great respon¬ 
sibility upon Father’s head. All the pub- 


142 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


lie buildings, squares, parks, bridges, pub¬ 
lic fountains, and statues were in his 
charge, and, really, on that night, Be- 
san^on looked like a fairy place. 

Boom! Boom! The sunset gun! 

The play of the lights begins. The 
town-hall, the prefecture, the Palace of 
Justice, are ablaze with millions of tiny 
gas-jets. The grass and the flower-beds 
in the parks are strewn with burning can¬ 
dles, each one a star in a colored glass. 
In the trees hang, high and low, garlands 
and garlands of Chinese lanterns. The 
fountains reflect light, and the statues 
seem alive. The river is rolling fire, and 
precious gems fall from the sparkling 
bridges. And, therewith, upon the mul¬ 
tiple and joyous faces of the compact mov¬ 
ing crowd, the glare of red and green 
Bengal Fires, the lightning of golden fire¬ 
works—it is bewildering! I walk as in a 
dream. And all that beauty was Father’s 
work and idea! I was infinitely proud of 
it. 


BASTILLE DAY 


143 


The joy of the festival increased from 
hour to hour, music, crackers, singing 
everywhere, and, after supper, dancing in 
the open air on every public place. Late, 
late in the night, the streets still resounded 
with the words of our National Hymn: 
" Aux armes s Citoyens !" “ Allons , en- 
fants de la patrie! ” O Great Marseil¬ 
laise, you sing in every heart in France, 
and you have gone all round the world! 

We came back home, absolutely numbed 
with fatigue and delight. We were not 
used to going to bed so late, and we had 
been up ever since dawn. It was hard 
the next day to go to school and harder 
still to follow the lessons, for our little 
heads were filled up for many days to 
come with the excitement of the festival. 


CHAPTER XVI 


CHRISTMAS 

A couple of weeks after the great 
Fourteenth of July, the summer holidays 
were there, waiting for us with the fresh 
woods, flowery fields, the singing birds, 
and the ever-lovely walks among them. 
How refreshed and strengthened did we 
come back to school in October, and 
worked zealously until Christmas! 

Oh, the Christmases in our snowy moun¬ 
tains have left deep furrows of joy in my 
memory! Those ten days of holiday for 
Christmas and New Year were so, so busy 
with charming things, with preparation of 
all kinds. We had very little time left to 
make a present with our own hands for 
every one at home, for never would we 
have dared to buy anything ready-made 

for New Year’s gifts. In France, the 

144 


CHRISTMAS 


145 


gift-day is on New Year’s Day, Christ¬ 
mas being toy-day. 

With us, the little Infant Jesus comes 
down the chimney in every home on that 
cold and starry night, and fills with bon¬ 
bons, oranges, and toys, the little shoes— 
and sometimes big ones, too—which have 
been put in the fireplace the night before. 

That night before —la veilee du Petit 
Jesus , the Watch Night—is perhaps 
sweeter in my memory than Christmas 
Day itself. After supper, all the family 
gathered in the drawing-room, in front of 
the chimney, blazing with a jolly wood 
fire and alone lighting the whole room. 

The smell of a fresh green fir-tree 
floated in the air. The tree was there, be¬ 
hind a screen in the corner, but we were 
not permitted to look at it before morn¬ 
ing. We were allowed, though, to sit on 
the carpet, oh, joy! while the grown-ups 
were on chairs. My dear old Aunt Fanny 
came from Montbeliard, my Uncle Louis 
—the old General—from Algiers, my eld- 




146 WEEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

est sister and her captain husband from 
Belfort, and my tall cousin Eugene, a 
young architect from Paris. All brought 
news and sweetmeats from those far-away 
places. 

We were permitted to ask them ques¬ 
tions, another joy, for well-bred little girls 
in France might listen to grown-up peo¬ 
ple’s conversation, but never interrupt 
them with remarks or questions. On that 
evening, however, uncles, aunts, and 
cousins pleaded in our favor, and we were 
never rebuked. 

“ Oh, Aunt Fanny, tell us about ‘ La 
Dame Verte ’! ” 

And the chapter of wonders was 
opened. 

La Dame Verte (the Green Lady) is 
the all-powerful fairy of Franche Comte. 
Many, many old people claim to have seen 
her or heard her, and my aunt knew a lot 
about her. 

“ This really happened to a band of 
naughty boys,” she began. k ‘ One summer 


CHRISTMAS 


147 


day, instead of going to school, they pil¬ 
laged a beautiful orchard and hid them¬ 
selves among the rocks above the pit of 
La Sabliere. There they thought nobody 
could find them. But a few of them heard 
their consciences reproaching them, and 
this made them feel uneasy. 

“ Maturin, the worst boy of the band, 
began to laugh at them, to mock and shout 
at them, when suddenly La Dame Verte 
appeared, very angry. She caught 
Maturin by one foot and forced him to 
hop on one leg three times around the 
terrible precipice. Then she threw him 
into the void, but, at the bottom, waiting 
already for him, she caught him in a fold 
of her mantle, for the Green Lady is not 
cruel. Since that time, when boys pass the 
pit of La Sabliere, they always go two by 
two, hand in hand.” 

“Tell us another one! A long one! 
Please, Aunt Fanny! ” 

And her grave, soft voice would go on: 
“ In the forest of Joux, there is still to 


148 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

be seen the ruins of an old, old castle, 
where, long, long ago, lived the proud 
Knight of Joux, a widower, with his three 
beautiful daughters: Berthe, Lois, and 
Hermance. They had lost their mother 
quite young, and had grown coquettish, 
vain, and hard-hearted. They had many 
suitors, all desperately fond of them. 

“ ‘ My sisters,’ said Lois, the most beau¬ 
tiful, one day , 4 let us get engaged secretly, 
all three, and receive beautiful presents, 
and, when the day of open engagement 
comes, we will turn our suitors away and 
laugh at their confusion! ’ 

‘'And so they did! And that horrid 
comedy happened several times.” 

“ Oh, the wicked women! ” I exclaimed, 
indignantly. 

“ But, one day,” Aunt Fanny went on, 
“ the sisters found themselves neglected; 
the castle grew cold and still and silent, 
and they grew older and anxious. Their 
proud father, in high wrath, decided to 
organize a solemn tournament of arms, 


CHRISTMAS 


149 


and announced that the three champions, 
whosoever they should be, should marry 
the three sisters. 

“ The Green Lady was there, at the 
tournament, directing the blows, and, what 
do you think! The three victors were the 
ugliest men of the countryside, well- 
known for their stinginess and cruelty. 
What a punishment! 

“ To escape that awful humiliation, on 
the wedding day the vain girls sent their 
own maids in their stead, but veiled and in 
wedding gowns, while they themselves es¬ 
caped on their white horses, and galloped 
as fast as they could until the night. 
Their treachery was soon discovered, and 
the knights galloped faster and faster 
after them down the valley, even after 
nightfall, screaming revenge. 

“ The white horses grew tired, and the 
black horses, wilder. Escape and pursuit 
grew frantic in the cold, windy night, and 
the space between the damsels and the 
knights grew less and less. Iron-gaunt- 


150 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

leted hands almost seized the bridles of the 
white horses, when, in an instant, the 
Green Lady shortened the pursuit and the 
torment by changing the damsels into solid 
rocks, as hard as their hearts. The rocks 
are still down in the Valley of the Joux, 
and every girl who becomes engaged in 
that region, swears faithfulness by them.” 

We were spellbound by the deeds of 
La Dame Verte. 

“ Bring in the punch, Nou-nou, and the 
gingerbread,” said Father, “ and tell us, 
you also, some stories.” 

Nou-nou was always asked to spend la 
veillee with us. 

“ Oh, yes, Nou-nou; tales from your 
village,” would add Eugene. 

“ But, noble company,” she would re¬ 
ply, with a reverence, “ I do not dare; you 
make me too much honor! ” 

And her good face beamed with joy. 

“ Sit here! ” and Uncle Louis gave her 
his armchair. 

“ Oh, Monsieur le General, merci. 


CHRISTMAS 


151 


merci; I do not dare, it is too much good¬ 
ness ! ” 

“ Nou-nou, make haste, it is soon mid¬ 
night,” I would plead. 

“ Mes petites demoiselles, mesdames, 
monsieurs ” she would begin in her de¬ 
licious patois accent, “ it shall be about lit¬ 
tle Sister Beatrice. My grandmother 
knew her quite well. 

“ Sister Beatrice was very young and 
pretty, then. She was the custodian sister 
of the little chapel of Our Lady of the 
Flowering Thorns, at Nozeroy. 

“ One evening, as she was praying to 
the Virgin, she was tempted by the Devil, 
who showed her beautiful jewels. As she 
grasped them, they burned her fingers, 
and she knew they were coming from the 
Devil. She felt so ashamed that she made 
a vow to go for fifteen years long as a 
beggar, to expiate her sin. Poor soul! 
May the Blessed Mary have her in her 
company! Amen!” And Nou-nou 
crossed herself. 


152 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


She went on: 

“ So little Sister Beatrice left the chapel 
and went begging on the roads, suffering 
hunger and thirst, and cold and heat, re¬ 
bukes and blows, but praying all the time. 
At last, the fifteen years over, all worn 
out, by a great chance she came back to 
the chapel, and lo! she saw herself, still 
young, sitting in her stall. 

“ But, no! It was the good Virgin, 
Herself! 

“ ‘ Is it you, dear Beatrice? ’ she said to 
the poor nun. ‘ I am waiting for you since 
a long time, and as I was sure of your re¬ 
turn, I took your place the day you left 
me; so nobody noticed your departure. 
Now, you won’t leave Me any more.’ 

“And the Blessed Virgin went back to 
the altar, taking back her halo and her 
crown of Flowering Thorns.” 

“ Oh, Nou-nou, it’s a sweet story!” I 
exclaimed. “ Give us just another one be¬ 
fore going to bed, please! ” 

But what a noise! 


CHRISTMAS 153 

Piff! Puff! Jim! Boom! Crack- 
crack !—the whole fireplace seemed to 
burst gaily! 

“La buche! La tronche de Noel! ^ 
(The Yule Log),” Goby and I screamed 
together. 

And everybody, even Mother, knelt on 
the floor, picking up chocolates, bonbons, 
sweets, thrown out by the Yule Log—a 
big hollow branch of oak filled up with 
sweets and so arranged that the heat re¬ 
leases a spring and explodes a little pow¬ 
der. This had been placed on the fire by 
Cousin Eugene, unnoticed, during the 
telling of the stories. One may keep what 
one picks up, so everybody hurries, scram¬ 
bles, and laughs. 

Midnight! The bells toll madly, and 
the Watch is over, with its wonderful tales. 

My family goes to the service of the 
Protestant Church, Nou-nou to the Ca¬ 
thedral, and we little ones, we go to bed, 
we are so tired and it is terribly cold out¬ 
side. 



154 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

The snow has been falling for a week. 
Oh, to-morrow, what battles of snowballs 
in the park in the morning! In the after¬ 
noon, what a sleigh-ride and a skating 
along the frozen river! In between, what 
a dinner! 

“Georgette! Are you asleep?” pipes 
Goby’s voice in the darkness. 

“No, not yet! Why?” 

“ I think I hear something in the draw¬ 
ing-room chimney. I’m afraid! Go and 
see! It’s perhaps he Petit Jesn or La 
Dame Verte! ” 

Goby was easily nervous. The house 
was so, so silent, with everybody away. 
In a whisper, I answered: 

“Don’t be afraid! I’ll go and see. 
And do you know what I have just 
thought of doing! ” 

“ What, then? ” 

“ I’ll put our big snow-shoes—they’re 
bigger than our morning shoes—in the 
chimney. Sh! Don’t giggle! ” 

On tiptoe, I went to the drawing-room, 


CHRISTMAS 


155 


and replaced the little shoes by the big 
ones. Back to bed. 

“ Georgette? Le Petit Jesu hasn’t 
come yet? ” 

“Not yet; but let’s go to sleep, or He 
won’t come, you know! ” 

The next morning, Christmas Morning, 
what a rush to the chimney! 

“ Ohe! A jumping-jack, Goby; a 
jumping-jack! ” 

“And I a Punchinello! ” 

“And a shepherd for me! ” 

“And I’ve got the shepherdess! ” 

“ We’ll make them play the comedy! ” 
This we said together. 

“And, look! A little earthen pot to 
play cooking with! ” 

“And I—I have the little stove! ” 
Nou-nou was there, looking and laugh¬ 
ing with us. 

Mother came in. 

“ Now, turn around and look! ” she said, 
as the screen was put aside. 

“ Oh, quit est beau, qu it est bean!” 


156 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

That was the Christmas Tree which our 
eldest sisters had arranged for us, with 
silver and gold paper garlands, bright 
stars, globes, icicles, trinkets of all kinds, 
apples, pears, oranges, nuts, crackers, all 
hung from its bountiful branches. Hun¬ 
dreds of tiny candles were on it, ready to 
light it up in the evening. Our eyes were 
fascinated. 

I have always kept a childish love for 
Christmas Trees. When, almost thirty 
years later, I saw the superb Christmas 
Trees in New York, on Columbus Circle 
and Madison Square, with their hundreds 
of thousands of lights, my heart leapt to 
them. 

All those far-away days and their joys 
seemed to shine anew with each little light. 
A tender feeling swept over me, as the 
great Tree, magician-like, unrolled before 
my thoughts my dear old snowy-white 
Besan^on, and, in that cosy drawing-room, 
our modest family Christmas Tree. 





Spanish—La Fontaine Modern—La Fontaine Louis XIV —La Fontaine 

des Dames. de Flora. dtj (River) Doubs. 

FOUNTAINS OF MANY PERIODS, IN BESANQON. 








































CHAPTER XVII 

NEW YEAR’S DAY 

The Christmas joys were not over with 
Christmas Day. Far from it! The fes¬ 
tival lasted until New Year’s Day. 

A quite special treat was and is still 
reserved for the little folks of Besan^on— 
and the grown-ups, too: “ La Creche 
Bisontine,” an incomparable puppet-show, 
a popular drama in the Besan^on dialect, 
all about the birth of the little Infant 
Jesus. It is played every year, and has 
been so ever since the Middle Ages. The 
fancy of the popular tradition places the 
birth of the Divine Child as it were in 
Besan^on itself, in a stable upon the hills. 

Still, I see the tiny theatre, packed with 
people of all kinds: children poor and rich, 
soldiers, wealthy burghers, chimney¬ 
sweeps, bakers, even priests and nuns, all 

157 



158 WHEN 1 WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

chatting, laughing, full of expectancy. 
Three traditional knocks on the floor of 
the stage, and the curtain rises. 

A formidable “ Ha! ” resounds from the 
audience. 

My two eyes and two ears are not 
enough to enable me to see and hear all 
that is going on. 

There is the Star of Besant^on, above 
the well-known mountains, the city asleep 
at their feet, the house of Barbisier—a 
legendary citizen, and, in the rocks of the 
citadel, the cell of Brother Blaise, a 
legendary hermit. Now come the angels 
of Besan^on, calling the shepherds of the 
country, showing them the Star, and tell¬ 
ing them the glorious news. Barbisier 
appears, waked by the singing, and wakes 
up his wife Naitouere. Both call to their 
neighbor, Verly. They all decide to go to 
the hermit and ask him about that won¬ 
derful Star. On the way, they meet 
Brother Danapoio, another monk, full of 
wisdom and mischief. Brother Blaise, 


NEW YEAR'S DAY 


159 


looking through a telescope, tells them of 
the coming of the Three Kings, led by the 
Star. Then soon appear all the good peo¬ 
ple of Besan9on: Sister Angelique, Law¬ 
yer Bartolo, a coughing woman (la 
tousseuse ), a potter, a doctor, a mischie¬ 
vous chimney-sweep, a milkman, a coquet¬ 
tish woman, and some soldiers. All that 
colorful and noisy crowd goes to pay its 
adoration to the Divine Babe in the stable 
up on the hill. 

, In the second act, a dreadful thing hap¬ 
pens. The vain woman—who disturbs 
everybody and seeks only to be admired— 
is taken away by the Devil, who appears 
suddenly in a huge flame. The audience 
shrieks in horror at the top of its voice, I, 
more than any one else. Then arrive the 
Three Kings, with their gifts of gold, per¬ 
fume, and fruits. One cannot imagine the 
funny meeting and dialogue between those 
Oriental Kings and the good people of 
Besan^on; even with the ox and the ass. 
Nothing can translate it. The whole 



160 WHEN 1 WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


theatre is shaken with laughter. The chil¬ 
dren stamp with wild joy. 

Then follows, in the third act, a beauti¬ 
ful sermon in the Church of La Madeleine, 
with the whole population listening to it, 
and, finally, a gorgeous procession across 
the bridge. 

Oh, those puppets, so exquisitely and 
humanly grotesque! They really were 
alive for me, and when, later on, I heard 
that they had been replaced by real per¬ 
sons as actors, though all from Besan^on, 
I felt a deep mourning in my heart. 

That singular show so took hold of me 
that I lived it all over again for several 
days. Happily, the preparations for New 
Year’s Day put a break to that fever. A 
great task lay ahead of us. 

“ Now, Goby, we mustn’t talk any more 
about the Kings, and the ass wagging his 
tail to them as if he could talk with it; we 
must think seriously about our New 
Year’s letters for Mother and Father. 
Please don’t make me laugh! ” 


NEW YEAR’S DAY 


161 


But, mischievously, she would imitate 
the Coughing Woman. I could not resist, 
and began to preach like the good curate! 

“ But we’ll never write those letters if 
we go on that way! What a shame for us 
if they are not ready! ” 

Oh, those New Year’s letters! Mother 
could judge so many things through them. 
They were to be perfect, presenting our 
good wishes, showing our repentance for 
our faults of the past year and giving 
promises for the next, assuring our deep 
devotion, reverence and filial love. All 
that had to be written in a fluent and good 
style, without any faults of spelling, and 
never the same as the year preceding. We 
polished and repolished them, two even¬ 
ings long. 

On New Year’s Day, we were already 
awake at half-past five, all my sisters and 
I. Wrapped in warm morning gowns, a 
lighted candle in one hand, parcels and 
letter in the other, we went on tiptoe to the 
door of our parents’ room. 


162 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

Goby, the smallest, knocks gently, first: 
Tap! Tap! 

A sleepy voice from within: “Who is 
there? ” 

Goby’s timid voice: “It is I, the New 
Year! ” 

Father’s voice: “ I’m still sleeping! ” 
Subdued laughter. 

I knock next: Tap! Tap! Tap! 

“ Who is there? ” 

“ It is I, Health! ” 

Mother’s voice: “Wait a bit, the door 
is locked.” 

Renewed laughter. 

Fanny knocks louder: Tap—Tap! 
Tap-Tap! 

“ Who is there? ” 

“ It is I, Prosperity! ” 

Father’s voice, quite loud: “ Oh! I’m 
getting up, then! ” 

Adele raps vigorously: Rap-a-tat-tat! 
Rap-a-tat-tat! Tat ! 

“ Who is there, again? ” 

“ It is I, Happiness! ” 


NEW YEAR’S DAY 


163 


“ Oh, come in; come in quick! ” 

And we burst the door open! All four 
rush to the bed. 

“ Oh, my children, my little ones, what 
a surprise! It was you, and you, and you, 
and you! ” 

Kisses and kisses and kisses! 

We light the candles on the mantelpiece 
and carefully place our parcels on the ta¬ 
ble. Then the reading of our letters be¬ 
gins. We all four stand at the foot of the 
bed, like respectful courtiers, while 
Mother and Father, like a Queen and 
King at their Petite Lever , listen gravely. 
A smile betrays their contentment. 

“ C’est treSj, tres bien, mes enfants . 
N’oubliez jamais vos bonnes promesses! 
And now call Nou-nou to light the fire in 
the chimney.” 

This meant that we could at last pre¬ 
sent our gifts, and following the old, old 
custom of the province—not to be found 
elsewhere in France—we climbed into the 
big, large bed beside Father and Mother, 




164 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

yes, all four of us. Instinctively we fly to 
the family nest, and Mother presses her 
nestlings against her heart. Alas, alas! 
Our nest was so soon to be scattered! 

“Good Year to you, Nou-Nou!’ , we 
shout in a joyous chorus, as she enters the 
room. 

“ Good Year to you, Boris Maitres, et 
gentilles demoiselles! ” and soon the fire 
crackles in the chimney. 

“ Oh, oh! What a huge parcel! Is it 
for me? ” laughingly asks Father. “And 
from whom? ” 

• “ Moi; Georgette !" 

“ But it is a mountain! ” 

“ Oh, no. Guess!” 

“ A barrel full of oysters? ” 

“ No, no! ” 

“ 4 1 throw my tongue to the cat/ ” says 
Father, quoting an old proverb, meaning 
the giving up of the puzzle. 

“ Let me unpack it, Papa! ” 

And proudly I show a waste-paper 
basket, made of cardboard, cut out in 


NEW YEAR’S DAY 


165 


pretty patterns of fretwork and sewn with 
bright-colored wool—my invention! I 
put it over my head and jump in the bed 
like a Jack-in-the-box. 

“ Georgette, Georgette, quietly! Or 
you’ll smash my present to Mother! ” and 
Adele rescues a thin but heavy parcel. 

“ Oh, oh, that’s really fine! An oil 
painting! A lovely view of the river! ” 

Almost I envy her. I wanted my pres¬ 
ent to be the best. 

“And mine, Papa? ” Proudly, Goby 
produces her present. 

“ Oh, that’s a summer hat, or a sun¬ 
shade! What?” 

Everybody gently teases Goby. 

“ But don’t you see, Papa,” this, most 
seriously, “ that’s a lamp-shade for your 
working lamp. It matches the basket, and 
Georgette helped me to make it.” 

Renewed kisses. 

Fanny closes the display with a lovely 
portfolio of hand-worked repousse leather. 

The thinking out and working of those 


166 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


presents, year after year, though they 
were not always perfect—far from it— 
developed in us an artistic skill and love 
for imaginative work, and gave me so 
many happy hours! 

“ Breakfast is ready! ” announces Nou- 
nou. 

“ Oh, Nou-nou, Nou-nou, come! This 
is for you!” A new bonnet. “Adele 
made the lace, Fanny sewed the ribbon, 
and the little ones fringed it, all around.” 

“And here! A new cloak of merino. 
Mother sewed it all for you,” adds Adele. 

“And,” Father joins in, laughingly, 
“ here is a pair of shoes to go and dance 
in! But I didn’t sew them! ” 

“ Oh, Madame, Monsieur, mes petites 
demoiselles, it is too beautiful, too good for 
me!” 

She bows and kisses everybody’s hand, 
joy in her eyes. 

Breakfast is a treat—les gaudes—and 
each of us children receives a beautiful 
book, generally poetry by Lamartine, 


NEW YEAR’S DAY 


167 


Victor Hugo, Musset, le Comte de Lisle, 
Prudhomme, or some other great poet. 
Mother did not believe in spoiling us with 
presents; did we not have all we needed? 

“ Furnish your brain and your heart,” 
she would say, “ and Life will be full of 
presents for you! ” And it is true. 

The rest of the day goes on with visits 
and visiting. This is a little tedious for 
us, even the dinner with guests, for we 
must be so good, so quiet! 

But the evening comes as a relief, with 
music and more story-telling, this time by 
us alone, Goby and I, and for us alone. 
Mother, Father and my eldest sisters gen¬ 
erally went to a private dance given by 
friends, after our little concert, so that the 
rest of the evening was our own, and we 
shared it invariably with “ Cousine 
Clothilda” 

“ Cousine Clothilde,” the kindest, the 
most gracious, the most generous, the most 
powerful of all “cousines”! Our dear, 
dear fairy, created in our ever-active fan- 


168 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


tasy, in our insatiable little hearts, hungry 
for marvels and for what Life could not 
or would not give us! She was there, liv¬ 
ing within us, supplying all our impossible 
desires and wishes. 

We imagined her coming to us in 
dreams; and the telling of those dreams 
took us into the most fantastic of worlds, 
into realms without bounds. 

“ Oh, Goby, ‘ Cousine Clothilde ’ came 
to see me last night. She took me to that 
star; the red one, there! Do you see? ” 
And we squashed our noses against the 
window-pane. 

“ How was her carriage? ” 

“A marvel! A lovely, huge white swan 
was holding between his spread wings an 
enormous egg-shell, all carved and inlaid 
with precious stones. It was just big 
enough for me, and all padded with beau¬ 
tiful blue silk cushions, inside. A big 
shooting star—so big!—lighting the way, 
was attached to the neck of the swan by a 
long gold ribbon, and ‘ Cousine Clothilde ’ 


NEW YEAR’S DAY 


169 


showed the way by flying in front of it. 
We went first through lots of little silver 
clouds, and the swan was swimming in 
them. And once around the moon! And 
we landed on the red star, where strange 
and wonderful birds received me. 
And . . .” 

But I could not retell here all that hap¬ 
pened to me on that red star! Alone, it 
would make another book. 

Goby’s fantasies ran very differently: 

“ Oh, Georgette, 4 Cousine Clothilde ’ 
gave me a beautiful room, full of flowers, 
and each flower was a candy and never 
faded. I have put a lot aside for you, and 
we’ll have enough until next New Year.” 

So ended, in the dream-world, our New 
Year’s Day. 


170 WEEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 



How I Rode in the Sky in “ Cousine 
Clothilde’s ” Carriage 



My Sister Goby Eating the Candy Flower 
Childhood Sketches or Our Own Dream-Fairy 































































CHAPTER XVIII 


MORE REJOICINGS 

School reopened on the second or third 
of January, and until Mardi Gras—Car¬ 
nival Day—usually in February, every 
thought of pleasure was put aside. But 
that day, for which we had only one after¬ 
noon of holiday, is in my memory as a 
great mad flame of joy, leaping high to 
the sky. Though it is a feast of the 
Catholic Church, it is so, so old a custom 
that every one in France enjoys it alike. 
It is the last day of gaiety allowed before 
Easter. 

We really could be mischievous on that 
day, and nobody had the right to scold us. 
Right after lunch, Fanny and Adele 
helped us to put on our carnival costumes, 
on which all four of us had been busy the 

day before. I loved to be a little white 

1T1 




172 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


Pierrot, with the face thickly powdered 
with flour, the huge frill-collarette, and 
over-long sleeves. Goby made a delight¬ 
ful little pink-and-black Columbine. 

Once in the street, with my sisters and 
mother, the spirit of prankishness and fun 
would get hold of me, and I would hop 
and run and pirouette and laugh and sing 
and talk with a parrot voice, and say and 
do all kinds of nonsense. But I was not 
the only one! The streets, the whole city 
was alive with bands of boys and girls— 
the only time they dared go together—all 
masked and in amusing costumes of every 
color, laughing, jesting, dancing in whirl¬ 
ing rounds, and throwing millions of con¬ 
fetti in every one’s faces. ’Ware those 
who are in their path; the whirlwind of 
masks may carry them off! 

The streets grow fuller and fuller of 
masks and curious onlookers. Suddenly 
every one runs to the next corner, whence 
come discordant music and screams of fun. 

“La cavalcade! Les chars! La reine !" 


MORE REJOICINGS 


173 


And a fantastic procession of floats, big 
and small, drawn by magnificent horses— 
also dressed up, passes slowly on, offering 
to the wild crowd the most unexpected and 
grotesque spectacle imaginable. On the 
last float, higher than the first story of 
the houses, among her ladies of honor rides 
enthroned the Queen of Carnival, elected 
by her work-companions as the prettiest 
laundress in the city. 

She goes thus, with her court, to the 
Town Hall, where the Mayor and Aider- 
men offer her a banquet and a jewel. She 
is Queen, absolutely, for the whole day. 
In past times she had the right to save 
three prisoners, from death by burning, 
by hanging, and by drowning; the three 
old punishments of the fire, the rope, and 
the sack. 

Then comes King Carnival, himself, an 
absurd man of straw which the crowd 
burns cheerfully on the bridge and throws 
in the river while still burning, at the end 
of the mad day. So, with him, go down 



174 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

all our folly and badness—such is the 
symbol. 

Back again home, most exhilarated, we 
ate invariably the traditional pancakes, 
and received, until late in the night, visits 
from masked friends. You must guess 
who they are, but it is very difficult, for 
they change their voices, tell you funny 
things, make faces at you, and disappear 
suddenly, all in a few minutes. Oh, how I 
missed that day of mad laughter when I 
went abroad! 

Easter came with the spring, and so we 
passed Easter Sunday and Monday in the 
country. Nothing is lovelier than Easter 
in our Jura Mountains. 

Following the legend, the bells of all the 
churches come back on Easter Day from 
Rome, where they have gone on Good 
Friday to be blessed by the Pope. All 
children fancy that they have seen them 
flying back to their beloved home belfry. 

“ Oh, I saw the bells of St. Maurice, all 
dressed up in a thin blue veil; the last one 


MORE REJOICINGS 


175 


caught her train in the weathercock, as it 
came flying by the steeple,” the little 
peasants tell each other as they listen, face 
upwards, to the vibrant calling of the bells, 
filling up the whole blue sky. 

Everywhere the mountain-springs and 
the birds sing together, and flowers by the 
million embroider the old roads and 
young hedges. All the country churches 
are in flower; the fields, full of promising 
young wheat, seem to await the Easter 
benediction. 

The solemn procession walks slowly out 
of the little portico, banners float in the 
spring breeze, litanies—sung by the vil¬ 
lagers—rise in the soft air, and the flame 
of the long candles borne by them flicker 
in the sunlight. Little choir-boys in lace 
and red robes swing incense-burners in 
front of the old priest carrying the Host, 
walking under a canopy. His hieratic 
gestures of benediction bless the fields, the 
trees, the houses, the flocks, the people. 
Young girls, carrying baskets full of 




176 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 
spring flowers, strew them gracefully 

I 

along the road as the Host passes, as so 
many promises for a good harvest. Na¬ 
ture is so young, so generous, that all 
hopes are renewed afresh. 

How quickly those two days passed! 
But they gave us new strength of body 
and will to pick up again our school days, 
which would be without a break until the 
summer holidays, four months away. 

The violin lessons were tripled, for my 
violin-master had decided that I should 
play two or three solos, and should be one 
of the first violins in the orchestra in the 
great concert given every year to the city 
by the whole music school. I was by far 
the youngest. 

“And what will you play? ” my mother 
asked, when I announced the great news. 

“Three very different pieces: the 
‘ Sixth Concerto ’ by Viotti, and old 
‘ Bolero ’ by Croze, and a ‘ Romance ’ by 
Svensen.” 

How I went successfully through that 


MORE REJOICINGS 


177 


trial is still a mystery to me. My insane 
fear of the public almost paralyzed me, 
and when I came upon the great stage—• 
for the Concert took place in the Munic¬ 
ipal Theatre—and saw rows upon rows 
of unknown faces, and, in the great official 
box, the prefect, the mayor and other dig¬ 
nitaries, a cold sweat ran down my spine 
and hundreds of bells seemed to ring in 
my ears. I wished madly to run away, 
but my pride overcame my fear, and, 
boldly, I attacked the first notes. My 
initial stage-fright was over, but never, 
since, have I been able to face the public 
without a twinge of that terrible sensation. 


< 



CHAPTER XIX 


DISTRESS AND HARD WORK 

My eleventh year was to be an eventful 
one. In June, 1894, an awful mourning 
swept over all France. Our beloved 
President, Sadi Carnot, was stabbed to 
death by an Italian anarchist in Lyons. 
The horror and grief excited by that 
tragedy were boundless, and the President 
was honored with a magnificent funeral in 
the Pantheon in Paris, where the mortal 
remains of all great Frenchmen are de¬ 
posited, in sacred perpetuity. 

Every city kept the national mourning 
for a month. In Besai^on, every one 
wore black or dark garments, gentlemen 
wearing a large band of black crape 
around the left arm, ladies and children a 
black veil covering the whole hat. All the 
houses had flags floating at half-mast, with 

a big bow of crape and a crown of im- 

' 178 


DISTRESS AND HARD WORK 179 


mortelles. Every lamp-post or source of 
light of any kind, whether in schools, 
churches, shops, cafes, even on carriages, 
was veiled for a month with that sombre 
material. In private houses, also, lamps 
and candles were draped in black. 

On the very day of the crime, Mother 
and Nou-nou prepared our hats and Fa¬ 
ther’s sleeves, and my sisters and I made 
black shades for the lamps and candles. 

For a month, the cannon of the citadel 
gave one low boom in the morning, at 
noon, and at sunset for the One Minute 
Silence, and the bells of every church 
tolled in the evening. At nine o’clock at 
night, a band of soldiers, with muffled 
drums and carrying their rifles muzzle- 
downward, marched mournfully through 
the streets, beating the drums slowly. It 
sounded as a long suppressed sob, and 
made me shiver. 

A deeply impressive religious service, 
with the great anthems: “ Miserere mei, 
Domine " and " De profundis ” was held 




180 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


in the Cathedral, and every one—even 
Protestants and Jews—took part in it. 
The Cardinal Archbishop, himself, led the 
office. All generals, dignitaries, and pro¬ 
fessors were present, and I really felt that 
all France was crying. The President 
was so sincerely loved by all. 

He was the grandson of General Lazare 
Carnot, a great patriot, renowned for his 
valor during the Revolution and the 
Napoleonic Wars, whom the country had 
hailed as the “ Organizer of Victory,” for, 
throughout 1793, he had been the soul of 
the National defense, and, in 1794, organ¬ 
ized victory in fourteen armies; he was, at 
that time, but a simple captain. His 
grandson, our President, had the same no¬ 
ble nature and integrity. 

One has never been able to explain the 
mad act of that anarchist, for Carnot was 
almost at the end of his administration 
which, in France, lasts for seven years. 
Never since have we had a more popular 
President. 


DISTRESS AND HARD WORK 181 


That year, studies took up more and 
more of our time, occasions for play grew 
rare. Thursdays and Sundays were ut¬ 
terly devoted to housekeeping duties, un¬ 
der Mother’s personal direction, and even 
our beloved walks—our only sport—had 
to be shortened. 

In October, as I was graduated to the 
class of the Certificat d’Etude Primaire, 
the teacher announced one day that the 
fortnightly visit to museums and places of 
interest would begin that very afternoon. 
I came back from there absolutely dazzled. 
I had already seen many pictures and 
statues, at the permanent little exhibition 
in the great Window of the Fine Arts, in 
front of which—irresistibly attracted—I 
stopped regularly when on my way to the 
Park. 

But I never dreamed of so many pic¬ 
tures and so many statues at a time as in 
the Museum, and when, as home work, we 
had to write down our impressions and 
to make a resume of the teacher’s explana- 







182 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

tions about the picture we liked best, I 
could not make my choice; I loved them 
all. 

Yet, to finish, two took my preference. 
The first was a huge canvas, showing the 
great Napoleon watching on the battle¬ 
field of Austerlitz in the place of the sen¬ 
try, exhausted and sunken into irresistible 
sleep; a beautiful picture by our famous 
historical painter, Carl Vernet, a gift to 
Besanc^on from Napoleon himself. The 
second picture, by an unknown primitive 
painter, mysteriously represented St. 
Francis of Assisi, the lover of the poor, 
preaching to little birds and fishes. That 
picture never failed to fill me with aston¬ 
ishment. 

The museum also contained antique and 
fascinating Roman jewels, as well as sev¬ 
eral Egyptian mummies, which struck me 
with fear and awe. 

‘ k Oh, Goby! ” I said, telling her of my 
visit, for she was not in my division, 
“ mummies are terrible! They never 


DISTRESS AND HARD WORK 183 


laugh, they never speak, but they look at 
you with empty eyes! ” 

And, for a long time, I saw empty eyes 
everywhere. 

Another time we were taken to the 
Cathedral, to see its phenomenal astro¬ 
nomical clock, given by Cardinal Arch¬ 
bishop Mathieu, seventy years ago. That 
clock, by its astounding mechanism, re¬ 
produces exactly the whole movements of 
the planets, the Earth and the Moon. It 
shows, also, in a most ingenious way, the 
hours and tides of different places on the 
globe. Bronze figures of religious char¬ 
acters perform, at fixed times, the Descent 
of Christ to the Tomb, and the Resurrec¬ 
tion. The clock, the only one of its kind 
in France, is a marvel of human calcula¬ 
tion. Also we paid two interesting visits 
to the Observatory and to the Horological 
College, for Besan^on is one of the great¬ 
est centres of watchmaking in the world. 

In the class of the Certificat d’Etude, 
we had an extra hour weekly, which I an- 




184 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


ticipated always with especial pleasure. 
That hour was consecrated to the history 
of the great men of Franee, and especially 
of Besan9on and Franche Comte. 

“ Oh, Father,” I would say, always 
wanting to repeat what I had learned, 
“ to-day I really made acquaintance with 
Pasteur. I know all about him! He 
was born at Dole, not far from Be- 
san^on, in 1822 . His father was a sim¬ 
ple tanner, and little Louis went to the 
Primary School, just as we did, and then 
to college. He was a very quiet boy, and 
nobody thought, then, he would become 
such a great man, except the director of 
the college, who noticed, in the patient, 
hard-working lad, the germs of greatness. 

“ That director, a very able man, told 
him again and again that he ought to go 
to study in the great Normal College at 
Paris to become a Professor of Science. 
So, when sixteen years of age, he went to 
Paris to prepare himself for this very diffi¬ 
cult course, but he missed terribly the air 



Victor Hugo (1802-1886) 
Poet and Novelist. 


Marquis de Jouffroy (1751-1832) 
Physicist and Inventor. 


Louis Pasteur (1822-1895) 
Scientist and World-Benefactor. 


Joseph Proudhon (1809-1865) Claude Pajol (1722-1804) 

Philosopher and Economist. General and Patriot. 

SOME GREAT MEN OF FRANCHE COMTE. 
















DISTRESS AND HARD WORK 185 


of his home, and his health broke down 
under what he had to endure. 

“ ‘Ah! If I could only smell again the 
air of the tannery,’ he would say to his 
friends, ‘ I should feel so well! ’ 

“ So he came back and, shortly after, 
entered the College of Besan9on. Step 
by step he won his aim and became a great 
chemist. ‘Work! Work always!’ was 
his motto, and his patient and indefati¬ 
gable researches have benefited humanity 
in a way and to a degree that no one could 
have ventured to hope. 

“ Thanks to him, the world has learned 
methods which render possible prevention 
against infectious disease, and they have 
worked wonders for men and animals. 
His most wonderful work was the discov¬ 
ery of a cure for that dreaded disease: 
hydrophobia in men, rabies in animals. 
Before Pasteur’s time, the poor victims 
died in terrible agonies, chased away from 
their cities and left alone to die. In the 
Middle Ages, they were smothered be- 


186 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


tween mattresses, horrible! Now, all over 
the world, there are Pasteur Institutes— 
the first one founded in Paris, 1888— 
where thousands of people of all lands 
have been cured. 

“ That great benefactor, simple and af¬ 
fectionate like a child, passed quietly away 
near Paris in 1895, repeating to the de¬ 
voted disciples watching their great mas¬ 
ter’s last hour: 4 One must work, work al¬ 
ways! ’ ” 

I made close acquaintance, too, with our 
unequalled poet, dramatist, and historical 
novelist, the great Victor Hugo. Going 
to school, I passed every day the very 
modest house where he was born in 1802. 
He came into the world very puny and 
weak, but the tender and intelligent devo¬ 
tion of his mother kept him alive. As his 
father was a brilliant general under Na¬ 
poleon, the boy was educated first in 
Spain, during the French occupation of 
that country, and, later, in France. 

At twenty years of age, his first poems: 



DISTRESS AND HARD WORK 187 

Odes et Ballades ” made him famous be¬ 
fore his time, and, soon, his historical 
dramas made him the greatest dramatist 
since Shakespeare. But he knew how to 
write beautiful stories for children, too, 
he loved them so. His grandchildren, 
Georges and Jeanne, whom he adored, in¬ 
spired that most lovely poem which he 
called: “ The Art of Being a Grandfa¬ 
ther.” His unsurpassable novels, notably 
“ Les Miserables ” and “ Notre Dame de 
Paris ” are known all over the world. He 
passed well-nigh twenty years in exile, 
because of political trouble, but he came 
back to Franee afterwards. He was a tre¬ 
mendous worker, and wrote up to his last 
year, when eighty-three years old. His 
sarcophagus was placed in the Pantheon 
of Paris. Victor Hugo is a world-genius 
among poets and among men, and Be- 
san 9 on is infinitely proud of being his 
birthplace. 

Then I heard of Moncey and of Pajol, 
great generals of Napoleon, and of their 


188 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


comrade-in-arms, General Beuret, the 
great-uncle of my father, whose bust is to 
be seen in Versailles in the great Gallery 
of Battles. Also of Fourier (1772) and 
Proudhon (1807), both famous philoso¬ 
phers ; and of Jean Gigoux ( 1806) , a great 
painter, all children of my dear old city. 
My interest was especially strong in the 
celebrated Baron Cuvier ( 1769) , the great 
naturalist and paleontologist. He was of 
the same family as my mother, and, like 
her, was born in the old Huguenot city of 
Montbeliard. 

Two other glorious things were con¬ 
ceived in the heart and brain of great men 
of my province. The Marquis of Jouf- 
froy, a physicist, built the first effective 
steamboat; this made a successful trial on 
the River Doubs around Besan 9 on, and 
the great Fulton himself made a declara¬ 
tion of the successful experiment before 
the Congress of the United States, in 
1796. Rouget de Lisle (1760), a young 
lawyer of Lons le Saulnier, composed the 



The River Doubs, Encircling BESANgoN. 

The bridge dates from Roman times; the boat to the right, is a 
floating public laundry, a common thing on the rivers of France. 



Over the Roofs of BESANgoN. 

The chimneys are innumerable, for the winters are very cold ; 

but the homes are very cozy. 





















DISTRESS AND HARD WORK 189 

words and the music of the immortal 
Marseillaise, in a burst of patriotism while 
fighting for the young Republic in Stras- 
burg. 

I loved those lectures on our great men. 
They made me cherish and revere more 
and more that little corner of France 
which has contributed so largely to the 
glory of my country and of my race. 


CHAPTER XX 

IRREPARABLE LOSS 

The day of examination arrived and 
found Goby and me well prepared but ter¬ 
ribly anxious. The examination took 
place in the large room of the Palais Gran- 
velle on a dreadfully hot July day. All 
the other little girls—candidates from 
other schools—were there, too, all in their 
black aprons, the teachers and inspectors 
in black, also; it looked terribly impres¬ 
sive. 

The first day, for the written examina¬ 
tion, passed too fast, the hours seemed to 
me to gallop and to leave hardly time for 
the work; oh! what an anguish! The sec¬ 
ond day, for oral questioning, seemed, on 
the contrary, too long; when would finish 
that painful set of queries? But, the third 

day, our names were on the list of ad- 

190 




IRREPARABLE LOSS 191 

mitted ones, and that with Honors! Our 
joy knew no bounds. 

As an exceptional reward, Mother took 
us in the country, to a tiny hamlet where 
a friend of ours had a large country house. 
The place was delightful, and we felt as 
in a paradise all the day long in the fields 
and under the trees. 

The population, eighty in all, was like 
a large family, and twice I played tunes 
on my violin, to the delight of young and 
old, who soon gathered and danced, all 
together, on the grass, good old dances. 
In a flash, I saw again the peasants’ ball 
of my childhood, but this time Monsieur 
Raoul was myself! I do not think I ever 
played on my violin with so great a joy 
as during that happy time in the country. 

Back to the city, I caught the measles 
—I do not know how—the first and only 
time that I remember being ill. Of course, 
I had to stay in bed. It was a curious and 
new feeling to do nothing, to stay quiet, 
and to see and hear everybody busy around 


192 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

me. I felt almost guilty. Mother, being 
an excellent nurse, never called the doctor, 
and cured me simply with entire rest and 
tea. Yes, ordinary tea! In those days, it 
was still regarded in Franee as a medicine, 
a very good and effective one. 

I was not quite cured when Goby was 
taken ill, too. So we both were lying in 
bed, which we enjoyed hugely, talking of 
Cousine Clothilde when not sleeping, 
and drinking nice, warm tea. Those days 
of measles were really kind to us, and I 
wish that every little girl could remember 
her own with the same cosy feeling. 

We continued our studies at the Ecole 
Superieure. Lessons now became of a 
very serious and severe character, each 
subject being treated by a special pro¬ 
fessor. Advanced physics, chemistry, and 
natural history attracted me more than 
any other matter, with their practical ex¬ 
periments. 

Drawing branched in every form, 
geometric, plastic, usual, imaginative and 


IRREPARABLE LOSS 193 

decorative; I took to it with passion. 
Mathematics became very arduous. I re¬ 
member hours of agony while confronting 
my problems. Moral Philosophy heated 
me up to the highest degree, for I was 
given to see but one point only, my own, 
which has always been a great fault in my 
character. History, literature, geography, 
and astronomy, opening wider views to 
me, were real joys. 

Sewing became a true science, with cut¬ 
ting and designing of garments. Gym¬ 
nastics and drilling, with all kinds of ap¬ 
paratus, in the big hall, gave me an ex¬ 
uberant pleasure beyond all words, and, 
during four years, I kept the first place. 

We had no Bible lessons, for, in 
France, religion is taught only by the dif¬ 
ferent churches, and is never discussed in 
schools. But we had Civics and Political 
Economy to brood over. As to Composi¬ 
tion, twice a week, this had advanced to 
real essay-writing, and it became more and 
more one of my favorite subjects. Of 


194 WHEN 1 WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


course, we had Latin and Greek, but the 
study of a living language—German— 
pleased me more. We had, too, courses 
for Bookkeeping, which I did not like, and 
Theory of Music and Composition, which 
I did like. 

Our recess-times were not any longer, 
but we enjoyed them immensely in play¬ 
ing short scenes from our great classics: 
Corneille, Racine, Moliere, or else with 
athletics and games of skill. But what 
filled me with plain delight were the 
botanical walks, once a week, when the 
weather was fine. The smallest flower 
revealed to me such exquisite secrets that, 
even to-day, I never go for a walk with¬ 
out a magnifying lens in my pocket. My 
botanical albmn was my just pride. 

Our school-life became very intense and 
concentrated, and we grew quite serious, 
with wild bursts of childlike gaiety on 
festival-days and holidays. Nou-nou used 
to tell us: 

“ But you are getting too learned, mes 


IRREPARABLE LOSS 


195 


petites demoiselles! You’ll forget how to 
be children! ” 

I am afraid Nou-nou’s prophecy was at 
fault, there, for I have always been a big 
child. 

I had already graduated in the second 
year of the Ecole Superieure when a most 
unexpected, terrible, and cruel fate fell 
upon us. Our father, our dear, good fa¬ 
ther, who never had been ill in all his 
strenuous life, was suddenly seized with 
acute rheumatism of the heart, and, in 
three days, was taken away from us for¬ 
ever. 

Mother had called the doctor at once, 
but it was impossible to foresee the grav¬ 
ity of the attack. The doctor, having 
made his first visit, was to come back on 
the third day. That morning, at four 
o’clock, Mother, who was watching Fa¬ 
ther constantly, waked me up. She was 
very pale and trembling. 

“ Georgette, my little one, dress at once! 
Run without stopping to the doctor! I 


196 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

know you are the best runner. Bring him 
back! Here is the key of the street door.” 

Mother had hardly finished the com¬ 
mand when I was already bounding down 
the staircase. It was dark, cold, snowy, 
in November. No telephone! No taxi! 
No car! No carriage, at that hour, in 
those days. Only my two legs, to try to 
conjure away the mortal danger! And 
the doctor’s house was far from ours. 

I took the racing step, on tiptoe, elbows 
close to the body, mouth closed, as I had 
learned in school, and ran, ran, ran as a 
shadow on the snow in the silent streets. 
Half an hour of that desperate rmi 
brought me to the doctor’s door. 

I rang violently, and called: 

“ Doctor, doctor, come at once! Father 
is dying! ” 

A window opened, lighted with a can¬ 
dle, and the doctor himself, guessing more 
than he had heard, threw me a big key. 

“ Open the next door, my child; that’s 
the stable. I have a horse ready, always. 


IRREPARABLE LOSS 197 

My groom sleeps there. I’m coming at 
once! ” 

I waked up the groom by turning the 
key in the lock. 

“ Quick! Quick! Bring the horse 
out! ” 

The doctor was already there. He took 
me on his saddle and we galloped franti¬ 
cally home. 

Alas! Pity for me! It was too late! 

Mother, my sisters and Nou-nou were 
all sobbing silently around Father’s bed. 
Mother could not talk. 

I was paralyzed with pain, as though 
nailed to the ground. 

Had I not run fast enough? Oh, pity, 
pity! 

Nou-nou guessed my anguish, my ter¬ 
rible anguish, and came to me, like the real 
comforter she always was in time of need: 

“ Poor child, poor child, don’t worry so; 
you couldn’t have gone quicker. Your 
dear father passed away when you were 
hardly in the street.” 


198 WEEN 1 WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


The good doctor was painfully moved, 
and shook sadly his white head. 

“ Nature works too fast, and baffles us 
sometimes! ” he murmured. 

I approached Father’s bed and sank to 
the floor, exhausted. I could not cry. 
Goby’s gentle hand was pressing mine, 
trying to soothe me. 

We watched Father all the day and all 
the night. 

The next morning, Mother, alone, ar¬ 
ranged his last earthly garb, wrapped him 
in his shroud, and we gave him the last 
kisses, in his bier. 



La Porte Rivotte. 

A typical fortified gate, built by Vauban, the great engineer 

of Louis XIV. 



A Building of the Middle Ages. 

Spanish house erected in 1520. Note the iron pitch-burner on 

the corner. 





















CHAPTER XXI 


THE SCATTERED NEST 

With Fathers death, our home, our 
nest, was scattered. We were so unpre¬ 
pared for it that Mother had great trou¬ 
ble trying to put everything in balance 
again, for our education was not finished, 
and I was only twelve years old. 

Adele and Fanny decided to earn their 
living, immediately, to lighten Mother’s 
care. Two months later, another heart¬ 
rending departure took place: Fanny, our 
little mother, who watched over us, who 
scolded us, and for whom we had a bound¬ 
less admiration, left Besan^on for London, 
where she found a post as Professor of 
French Literature in a young women’s 
college. Six weeks later, it was Adele’s 
turn, so Goby and I were left alone with 

Mother and Nou-nou for a whole year. 

199 


200 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

Oh, how cold, sad and empty was our 
home! Mother grew very silent and 
bitter. We tried our best to brighten her, 
but she never was the same again. Dear 
Nou-nou was a real guardian angel for all 
three of us, and her brave temper and good 
patience brought back, little by little, 
smiles on Mother’s face. 

We worked harder and harder in school, 
and our music became the backbone of our 
future. We wanted to become indepen¬ 
dent as soon as possible, to relieve Mother. 

One solemn evening, Goby and I, in the 
quietness of our room, discussed a long 
time about the great question: what to do 
in Life? Music appealed to both of us, 
greatly, and was surely the quickest way 
to earn our living, since we could not pos¬ 
sibly obtain any professorships before 
twenty-five years of age, as had been the 
great desire of Mother and Father. 

“You see, Goby, we can pass our 
musical examinations at eighteen or nine¬ 
teen, and find a position in a music college, 


TEE SCATTERED NEST 201 

meantime preparing ourselves for concert 
work, you for the piano, I for the violin. 
And we’ll give concerts together.” 

That great decision gave us new cour¬ 
age, and Mother approved of it. 

Next summer, Fanny and Adele came 
home for the summer holidays. Our joy 
touched madness. We felt again as the 
little ones. But my sisters could not be¬ 
lieve that we had grown up so fast. I was 
taller than either of them! They brought 
laughter and fun back with them, alto¬ 
gether a new life—they had seen so much! 
Paris, London, the sea! And the telling 
of their adventures in a foreign land had 
no end. It tempted me terribly to go and 
see for myself. I could not put that idea 
out of my head. Little did I know then 
that once I myself would see astounding 
New York. 

With September they went back to 
England, and home-life sank back to its 
daily routine: work, work, work! Unlike 
our elder sisters, we could not enjoy danc- 



202 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

ing, riding and painting lessons, theatres 
and parties; with Father’s death all that 
was not now to be thought of, but our dear 
music repaid us amply for so many lost 
things. 

True, we had dear little companions, 
which charmed and soothed our working 
hours, growing harder and harder towards 
our Brevet examinations. These were two 
darling pussy-cats, mother and son; the 
mother, a beautiful black Angora, had 
played with me ever since I was a baby. 
She was getting very old, and grew real 
white hair. Her son, by a strange freak 
of Nature, was red like a carrot, not at all 
a pretty boy! 

But I loved him all the more for it! He 
was extremely clever. He and I were 
great, great friends, and I taught him lots 
of little tricks. He could open and close 
the water tap in the kitchen, and would 
wipe his four little furry paws on the mat 
before entering the drawing room, in the 
funniest way. 


TEE SCATTERED NEST 203 

Minon was a real darling pussy-cat and 
followed me everywhere. When, at night, 
I had to work long hours over my ad¬ 
vanced school lessons, he used to jump 
upon my shoulder and curl himself warmly 
around my bent neck. He purred so 
gently in my ear that I missed his talk 
when he was not there; he played, too, 
very daintily, with the buttons of my 
frock, and I worked better when petting 
him from time to time. 

Oh, Minon, little red puss, you really 
softened my working hours! 

Other little friends, too, took place in 
my heart during those heavy days. These 
were birds, little birds, of all countries, 
exquisitely beautiful. They lived in a 
huge and wonderful aviary belonging to a 
dear old lady, a great friend of Mother’s, 
of whom we saw a great deal after Fa¬ 
ther’s death. She allowed me to bring 
grain for the sweet little things, and I 
loved to change the water in their drink¬ 
ing-jars. She taught me how to move 


204 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


freely among them, in order not to 
frighten them, and to call them with cer¬ 
tain little cries which they recognized at 
once. So they very soon knew me, and I 
always entered that great flying cage, spa¬ 
cious like a garden, as in a house full of 
real friends. I considered them almost as 
my birds. 

My Brevet examinations came with all 
their suspense and their crucial importance 
for us. I passed them successfully, as did 
Goby. One more year for the Brevet 
Superieure—corresponding to the B. A. 
in America—and there would end my 
school studies. 

My violin examinations I passed bril¬ 
liantly, though, at the Annual Concert, 
my nervousness was just as bad as the first 
time. 

I was then just seventeen. 

“ Oh, Mother, if I could just give my 
own first concert, my very own, next year! 
What would you say? ” 

“ But, child, it is impossible! You are 


TEE SCATTERED NEST 205 

much too nervous, and only half-grown 
up!” 

“ Half-grown up”! That expression 
piqued me! 

“ Well, I shall show her that, even so, 
I am capable of conquering myself!” I 
decided inwardly. 

So, when Adele and Fanny returned 
for the summer holidays, as usual, I deter¬ 
mined to start with them for England in 
the autumn, and to make my debut over 
there, for Mother would never have let me 
do it, so early, in France. With Fanny’s 
aid, I found quite a good position in a 
College of Music in London, where I per¬ 
fected myself, too, and where, later on, I 
took up singing professionally. This 
proved to be my real musical career, and 
took me, years later, to concert work in 
America, where I made so many dear 
friends. 

My preparations were very hasty, and, 
when the day of departure arrived, I could 
hardly realize that I was leaving home, 


206 WEEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 


Mother, Goby, Nou-nou, the cats, the 
birds, the school, the mountains, the city, 
the river—everything which I loved and 
which loved me. 

Oh, how I cried on that dreadful jour¬ 
ney in 1900, sitting up the whole night 
through! Oh, how exhausted I was on 
arriving in Paris, for it was my first rail¬ 
way journey! I fell asleep for sheer ex¬ 
haustion, all dressed up, still holding my 
violin case, on the little hotel bed, for we 
had to break the journey. 

When I woke up, it was dark. I could 
not make out where I was, Fanny being 
away, getting the boat tickets. Why was 
the street so noisy? And where was 
Goby? 

Oh, yes, I knew now, I was in Paris, 
far, very far from Goby; tears flooded my 
eyes afresh. 

My Goby, my little Goby, my second 
self, how could I leave you! I wanted to 
go back. 

Fanny came in joyously: 



TEE SCATTERED NEST 207 

“ Well, how did you sleep? ” 

“ Did I sleep? ” 

“Why, ever since this morning! I 
didn’t want to wake you up. But now, 
come, refresh yourself, and we’ll go and 
see the illuminations of the Great Exhi¬ 
bition! The boat we take starts to-mor¬ 
row morning.” 

“ Oh, illuminations? Like those in 
Besan^n? ” 

“ Much, much better! ” 

“ Impossible! ” 

We took a carriage to the great show. 
I thought it was overdone. 

“ Father had better taste! ” was my 
only comment. 

The next morning, I left Paris without 
any regrets. My whole heart was in Be- 
san9on. 

The crossing on the French boat was 
dreadful! I thought I would die, so rough 
was the sea; but I was still in France, on 
the boat! 

But, in the train, rolling towards Lon- 


208 WHEN I WAS A GIRL IN FRANCE 

don, I realized at last, with a pang, that 
I was in a foreign land when I heard 
Fanny responding in English to the con¬ 
cise demand: 

“ Tickets, please! ” 

Yes, France was left behind! 

At last we reached the college, a very 
large one, with several hundred pupils, 
some much older than myself. At once I 
felt my new dignity and rank. 

Too anguished for talk, after a long and 
silent embrace Fanny left me alone with 
the Directress of the College, a charming 
but cold person, who showed me to my new 
room. There, once the door closed, I took 
out the photographs of my dear ones and 
kissed them despairingly. 

I was no more a little girl in France, 
but a grown-up young woman, flown out 
of the nest on her own wings, ready to defy 
the hard winds, and to rejoice in the voice 
of her violin. 


THE END 


































0 






































